#wrote some of this on company time bc I'm quick at doing tasks and because my coworker heard its my bday and told me not to work too hard <

[leverage-ot3]

since it's my birthday I'm sharing what I have (ROUGHLY) written down so far for my ot3 video analysis' section on the long way down job (if you haven't been able to figure it out yet, that's one of my favorite episodes)

Here we are seeing the aftereffects of the San Lorenzo Job in real time in the relationships between the characters. It seems as though Hardison is feeling off-balance in his relationship dynamic with Parker, who we we remember confessed her feelings and willingness to pursue a relationship with Hardison at the end of the Big Bang Job (note, there weren’t many relationship developments that happened between them in the San Lorenzo Job for obvious reasons- i.e. they were actively trying not to die). Hardison, who has been living that slow-burn life for the past three years is obviously ecstatic that this is happening, but it seems as though there is a disconnect between his expectations and reality of the relationship. NOTE: One of the wonderful things about Hardison is that he doesn’t expect anything from Parker- he wants her as she is in whatever way he can have her. When I’m talking about expectations, I’m saying that he doesn’t know how to act with this new relationship development- he doesn’t know where the ‘lines’ are of Parker’s comfortability and what she is ready for, which is leaving him a bit confused and unsure of how to act. 

For example, he goes in to hug her but she either doesn’t notice, doesn’t compute what he’s trying to do, or isn’t up for that level of physical affection at the current moment. She high-fives him instead

[significance of eliot 'don't touch me bro' spencer not only giving hardison a hug but INITIATING IT because parker didn't take his open arms as an invitation. talk about how much lighter he looks after the events of the san lorenzo job- it's almost like a literal weight has been lifted off his chest]

It’s easy to see the Parker-Hardison dynamics in this episode, but don’t miss how there is also significant development in the relationship between Parker and Eliot. Parker and Eliot are paired off for most of this episode climbing the mountain to try to recover the incriminating notebook from the dead mountaineer. They work efficiently in tandem, literally keeping even pace with one another.

[talk about heart-wrenching cave scenes here]

And when they’re free, this closeness and ability to be on the same wavelength is displayed when they are confronted by the gunman looking to destroy the evidence. He grabs Parker and points a gun to her head, demanding that Eliot hand over the notebook. She yells at him to not hand it over, but in actuality, she is distracting the gunman from noticing her sliding the dead man’s cellphone with an incriminating video into his pocket. Eliot plays along and into the bit, throwing the notebook over to get Parker back.

[talk about hardison being so happy to hear parker (and eliot) over the comms. talk about how he isn't expecting a hug and is resigned (if not content) to do a high five and is floored when parker practically jumps into his arms. where she knows it's safe and warm.]

[silverspectre]

en garde, pret, aimer! || lockwood & co.

pairing: light florence bonnard x anthony lockwood

genre: fencing(?)ish!au and also maybe straying away from canon bc what iS canon at this point, fluff, platonic main relationship, eventual angst, pre-canon??? aka beFore the series takes place

words: 3.8k

tags: fluffy!!, young lockwood nd flo, fencing stuff, apologies for the french (literally lol), i wrote this like half a year ago i’M SORRY-

what to expect: “’Why else would I be here? Tea time?’”

a/n: so this was beta-read and edited by two lovely people! i appreciate their help so much, as they’ve made this story what it is now. thank you so much @piratekingimogen​ and @willowwisk​ for your help! is this canon-compliant? someone ask jonathan stroud. this will be my last fic for a while, unless i have a spontaneous bout (pun intended) of inspiration. thank you all for your support!

translation: en garde, prets, allez = on guard, ready, go (used to start a fencing bout) / en garde, prets, aimer = on guard, ready, love (used to start this story)

The train ride from London to Paris is a particularly long, arduous journey. There's not much to see; reading a book 50 times or twiddling your thumbs is perhaps the most productive thing one can do. However, though a subjective opinion, it's a great deal less dull when in the company of a pretty girl whose name you learn through one piece of black licorice.

Florence Bonnard. It was elegant and flowed off the tip of your tongue. She was pretty; her teeth shining white and her long, blonde hair practically another shade of gold, shimmering in the sunlight. Anthony Lockwood could only stare at her.

To Anthony, Paris was a dream of any fencer. It was hailed as the fencing capital of the world, home to countless famed swordsmen and agents. He could merely wish to be like them. He was sure he was on his way, however. He'd been invited to a DEPRAC-sponsored competition in France, and of course, he absolutely had to go. His supervisor, Nigel 'Gravedigger' Sykes, forced him anyways.

He made the acquaintance of Florence Bonnard only a few minutes ago, when she huffed into the train compartment that was otherwise empty except for Anthony's doe-eyed presence. Looking upset, she plopped herself down diagonal from him. She didn't even acknowledge his existence.

"Hi?" he squeaked out. His voice was a little scratchy. He coughed, then repeated the word in a much more confident tone.

"Well? What are you?" This was the first he'd heard the girl speak.

She spared a glance at Anthony.

"I'm, uh..." He thought fast. She didn't

know him; no one on the train, as far as he knew, knew his name. He could reinvent himself, banish the name used so fondly by his parents and sister. He could be...

"I'm, uh... Lockwood. Just Lockwood. Yes. That's me."

"Lockwood... classy," she commented. She paused, in thought. "Though... I think I'll call you Locky."

"L-Locky?" Lockwood stuttered. This was not how she was supposed to react to his name.

"Locky. It practically rolls off the tongue, don't you think?" She smiled, slightly exposing her white teeth. It was a pretty sight. He could've stared at her for a second or an hour before he registered her answer.

Lockwood was caught off guard. "W-well, what's your name, then?"

She smiled a pearly white smile. "Wouldn't you like to find out," she said slyly.

A sweets trolley rolled down the aisle, pushed by a plump old woman. "Anything you'd like to buy?" She popped her head in the compartment.

The girl scanned the trolley, then made up her mind. She turned to Lockwood. "You'll have to buy me a liquorice to find out my name."

"I'll have a bag of liquorice, please," Lockwood immediately said to the lady, pulling out two pounds and exchanging it for a bag. He didn't know why he complied so easily - maybe he'd fallen under a trance for her. 

He handed one to the girl, who looked momentarily startled before recomposing herself. "So, what's your name?" Lockwood asked.

"Florence Bonnard," she simply replied. It matched her, Lockwood thought. Prim and proper, it matched her perfect posture and neatly combed hair.

"You fence?"

"Why else would I be here? Tea time?" 

"O-of course not, but you're just so pretty-"

Oh no. He'd let it slip.

Florence Bonnard's lips curled upward. "Thanks, Locky. I'll remember that on the piste."

He was suddenly scared to imagine Florence Bonnard on the piste, with her blonde hair tied up and her body in first position, sword ready to attack. With her confidence, double of his, how good could she be? Lockwood felt his stomach turn queasy. How good were the others on the train?

She poked Lockwood lightly. "Worried?" she teased. "En-garde," she mimicked a referee, "prets-" she made a face, "allez!" She pretended to poke Lockwood with her rapier, then laughed.

Lockwood couldn't help but laugh with her at her imitation.

"What's your agency?" Lockwood asked.

"That'll cost you a liquorice," she stated.

He handed her one.

"Sinclair & Saones. 'm an apprentice for 'em. You?"

"Nigel Sykes."

"Really?" she drawled. "You seem like the Rotwell type - well, then again, you weren't sitting with the lot in the first place."

"Rotwell and Fittes agents always win, don't they?"

"I'll give 'em a run for their money. How old are you?"

"Ten."

She looked up and down. "Alright then."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She smirked. "Nothing... When's your birthday, then?"

He told her.

"I'm older than you."

"So what? That doesn't mean you'll be better!"

Florence Bonnard smiled. "We'll see about that."

Nigel 'Gravedigger' Sykes, or just Sykes, was Lockwood's mentor. He was a bit scraggly, but not enough to make him incompetent with a sword. He was on the slightly mad side, yes, but was an extremely skilled swordsman. Lockwood was constantly amazed by his ability.

"You rely on remises too much. Practice on your footwork, you're doubting yourself too much.”

They'd been practicing for two hours - maybe more. Lockwood didn't even bother trying to count the bouts. His hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, his breaths hot in the mask. Lockwood's legs were sore and his arms hurt from all the attack, parry, and riposting he'd done.

The competition started in three days - Sykes had decided Lockwood needed to cram in as much practice as he could. On and off the piste, Lockwood could hear Sykes' voice in his head, telling him to Parry quarte or Eat your breakfast, it's free food! Food was accommodated at the hotel which sponsored DEPRAC for the competition. The rooming was nice as well, Lockwood being lucky enough to get a room to himself rather than most participants in the tournament who had to share a room.

When the competition finally rolled around, he'd won the first bout easily - almost too easily. Regardless, a win was a win, even against some Bunchurch agent with half a brain.

The real competition - or so he'd heard from rumours - was Quill Kipps of Fittes. He was apparently a prodigy fencing-god in his mid-teens, favoured by the majority of the crowd. He was tall and ginger, from what people had been telling him. Easy to spot in crowds. Lockwood was curious to see the famous Kipps in practice - rather, he was curious to see what any Fittes or Rotwell agent could bring to the table.

Lockwood had yet to see the mysterious Florence Bonnard do her bout. He was eager to do so after showering and slipping into the stands to watch the next bouts. After a win from Alexander Fawley, and another from Emily Schreiber, Quill Kipps was up. The teen was fast, and his every move was clearly calculated. It was everything Lockwood could aspire to be.

Florence Bonnard was fast as well, to Lockwood's surprise. She was extremely quick on her feet and could get a touch faster than the referee could blink after saying allez. It was impressive, being younger than a lot of contestants- and she wasn't even a Fittes or Rotwell agent.

Lockwood considered what he'd do if he was ever tasked with being her opponent, but only for a split second. It was too unrealistic he'd make it that far. But still, he had a vivid image of her lunging, ponytail swaying and rapier thrust as the tip of her blade touched his side. Now was not the time to daydream.

The second bout passed, 14-15. Lockwood had won in a landslide, attacking the split second his opponent hesitated.

After, as Lockwood chugged a bottle of water on the side, still sweaty and clad in his fencing gear, Florence Bonnard approached him. "Good bout, Locky," she said in her sly way. "Although, your footwork could be better." His gaze was stuck on her, even as she stalked off in true Florence fashion. 

"Th-thanks?" It was already too late; Lockwood just watched her straw-colored hair swish away. She was one interesting girl. He sighed, staring at her back.

Lockwood's days consisted of eating, practicing, and sleeping. He would occasionally watch other agents practice, to pick up on faults and techniques they used. That's, at least, what Sykes had told him to do. Half the time Lockwood just drifted off, staring at a wall corner or, as a current example, a blonde ponytail. ...Blonde ponytail...? It was Florence Bonnard in the flesh, practicing. Of course, Lockwood just assumed this fact, judging by the fencer's posture and hair. It was unmistakably her.

Lockwood hadn't seen her much, either because their schedules didn't match up or she barely practiced. She was very good, sharp on her feet and maneuvering like she was on ice. It was scary the way she got a touch so fast. He assumed she'd practiced a great deal privately; at least, that's how he comforted himself at the sight of her skillful rapier patterns.

Lockwood's eyes jumped to a tall ginger-haired fencer - no doubt Quill Kipps, practicing a couple metres away. He, too, was skilled. Close to Florence's level, but not quite. This could be the year someone from a small agency won - though, Lockwood couldn't keep his hopes up. Being the crowd favourite, who was to say he didn't have a couple tricks up his sleeve?

Bouts three and four passed, and just somehow, Lockwood had survived into the quarterfinals. The numbers were dwindling down; Florence Bonnard, not much to his surprise, was in strong.

The quarterfinals passed, but now that he'd won, more pressure had been draped on him. Practices stretched late into the night, leaving his muscles incredibly sore and eyelids drooping on their own accord. He almost forgot to shower one day, planning to sleep in his fencing gear. Sykes had been drilling into him much more. The lineup for the semifinals was posted; Lockwood would be fencing against Quill Kipps.

To say he was nervous was an understatement. He sweated at the thought of fencing the teen. No matter how much he analyzed Kipps' fencing, he never felt ready. Sure, he wasn't as good at Florence, but she was substantially better than Lockwood - as was Kipps. The day of the bout, Lockwood almost froze before walking in, trying not to look at the crowd. It was bigger than any he had fenced for before. He sucked in two deep breaths then pulled the mask over his face. Sykes patted him, whispered quick advice in his ear. Lockwood wasn't paying attention, more focused on the judges, rhe referee, and the feeling of his feet on the ground. He and Kipps did the salute, like any other bout.

The referee started to speak, also like any other bout. The words were muffled in Lockwood's jumbled mind. His thoughts were racing at 100 kilometers per second, tumbling around each other, unlike any other bout - but he didn't need to hear the words regardless. He knew what they were.

"En-garde."

Lockwood stared at Kipps.

"Prets."

He took a deep breath, readying himself.

"Allez!"

The bout began.

Immediately, swords clinked and clashed against each other as the agents attempted to protect themselves. Lockwood's mind went pure blank, and his body went into autopilot.

1-0. Sure, a rough start, but he could catch up.

1-1. Tied, that was okay.

2-3. Lockwood was in the lead-

5-7. Halfway there!

11-10. No, losing wasn't an option-

13-14. His sword was a blur in front of him, basically acting of its own accord. Parry, riposte, attack-! It was all too quick. Kipps had lost his balance, and Lockwood took the opportunity. He lunged, slashed with his blade just to earn a point. His blade felt something soft - he got a touch! - but then Lockwood actually looked at the tip of his blade.

Quill Kipps was stunned entirely. He'd fallen on the piste and stared up at the younger agent. The moment was silent; practically in slow motion. The crowd held their breath in disbelief.

Lockwood had struck Quill Kipps with his rapier on the bum. The judges were in shock. It was a touch, though, right? It... counted? The referee gestured, and Lockwood pulled his raper away.

The bout ended.

Lockwood won. Lockwood won, against the star of Fittes agency. Quill Kipps, meanwhile, fumed. His cheeks were redder than his hair, which was matted with sweat.

"I'll beat you next time, Anthony Lockwood..." he murmured.

The crowd was having its fun; booing in disappointment or cheering in amusement, Lockwood couldn't tell. He convinced himself it was the latter. He didn't mean to stab Kipps in the bum. It just happened. It's not like anyone ever goes into a bout thinking, "Oh, yeah, I'm going to riposte a clean one up his bum."

Sykes was impressed, though he seemed more pleased by the last touch Lockwood earned.

"You'll be going up against that Bonnard girl, so you better clean up that footwork of yours. Her bladework is quite fine, too, I'd say. Sharpen yourself up, Anthony - no pun intended."

Practice, as always, lasted to the evening - Lockwood had just gotten out of the locker room, hair wet from his shower when he heard a familiar rasping tone.

"Locky~" Florence Bonnard sing-songed, conveniently leaning on a pillar outside.

He approached her.

"Finals are tomorrow," she said, smiling. Her teeth glinted - it was charming. Her eyes shimmered a bright blue - when had he missed this feature of hers? She was breathtaking. He didn't react, dumbly nodding as he stared at her.

"Oh, and by the way? Stop staring at me sometimes, it's creepy, Locky. I know you like me, but you're too... you." She tapped his nose, ignited a blush across Lockwood's cheeks.

"Cute," she commented. "See you on the piste." She walked away in her typical manner.

Florence Bonnard beat him the next day, 13-15. It was completely fair. Her attacks were clean and precise, and she hesitated not a second. It was a blur in Lockwood's head; one second her blade was against his torso; the next, her blade had touched him 14 other times and the referee proclaimed her the winner. He wasn't disappointed, however - she, from a small agency, had won, not a Fittes or a Rotwell agent. He decided it was well-earned on her part, completely ignoring the way she had so softly put him down the day previous. She was just so attractive.

She gave him a toothy smile after the bout and patted his shoulder. "Don't be too upset, Locky." It was safe to say he wasn't.

2 years later.

It was terrible. It was one of those moments in your life where you can recount every detail of where you were and what you were doing exactly when it happened; heck, you could even recite the exact seconds.

Lockwood was reading the morning newspaper, sipping his pulp orange juice (the joys of being a blue whale!) when he read the news.

Both Sinclair and Saones (of the Sinclair & Saones agency) had died on a case, with poor Florence Bonnard being the only survivor. Florence Bonnard - the name reminded Lockwood of so much; mainly, his puppy crush on her when he was younger. He failed to see the appeal now, but platonically, she was wonderful, despite how much she demanded liquorice.

He visited her on the shorelines of the River Thames; it was mainly where she resided, to the most of Lockwood's knowledge. He slipped a bag of liquorice hidden under his coat for her.

Her appearance was slightly disheveled and a straw hat covered the half of her face. 

"Locky!" she croaked, but her voice lacked its usual mirth. In fact, it was incredibly fragile; to put an exclamation mark after it would never properly do it justice. She looked cold, shivering in what appeared to be her agent clothing. Her rapier was still attached to her side.

"You're shaking." Lockwood sat beside her.

"A-am I, Locky?" she hiccupped. She took a deep, shaky breath, then laughed, an echo of bitterness and a sore throat.

"I heard what happened," he said softly. "How?"

"How else, Locky?" she said, less of a question than a horrible revelation. Her voice was terribly sad, full of pain and memories. "It was ghost-touch. I protected myself with an iron cross 'til dawn against the Limbless." Her fists clenched in her skirt. A tear dropped down her cheek - which Lockwood noticed to have fresh, small scars and what looked like to be traces of tears on her slightly muddied face. It was the exact opposite from the pristine, composed Florence he'd known for so long.

"I'm sorry."

"You needn't be."

"Did you get hurt anywhere?"

She shrugged, wincing as she touched her cheek.

"I could-"

"Don't. It'll heal on its own." He wanted to tell her to clean it as well, but he could tell she'd turn down the advice in the same manner.

"Well," Lockwood said, "what are you doing next?"

Her grip tightened on the fabric of her skirt. "I don't know."

"You could train with me," Lockwood offered gently. "I don't have an agency or anything, but-"

"I-I think I'll try that. Thank you, Lockwood."

"Also, I brought these." He handed her the bag of liquorice.

A slight smile appeared from under her hat.

Her swordsmanship was still intact. Lockwood could for sure confirm this after she'd disarmed him 5 times. She'd lost her will, though. She looked pained picking up a rapier and could barely glance at salt bombs. Lockwood didn't ask. It seemed too personal. Over the course of 3 months, nothing had changed. If anything, it seemed to be harder and harder for her to fight properly.

"Locky... I don't think I can do this."

"Do what?" Lockwood knew perfectly well what she was referring to. "You're amazing with your rapier, still."

"This whole... 'agent' thing. I-I don't think I can go back." She was incredibly vulnerable with no snarky remarks or sarcasm in her voice. It hurt him to see her like this. He'd once felt similar, in his pain-filled rage when Jessica died. He couldn't look at ghosts, couldn't bear to think of them. Unlike Florence, however, he'd had rage to direct toward ghosts; she just felt pain.

Lockwood nodded. "You're sure?"

"It's been 3 months. Every time- every time I can still see their bodies next to me. Hear the screams, see the Limbless. I can't do it."

He hesitated, then put a hand on her shoulder. "I understand. But- what will you do?"

"I'll find something, I'm sure."

"I'm always here, Florence. I've been thinking about starting an agency, so if you need anything..."

Florence Bonnard smiled her classic grin. She patted his hair - he took so long gelling it in the morning.... Her blue eyes shone like the sea. "Don't worry yourself, Locky. I've got this."

For months, Florence wandered from thing to thing in search of replacement for being an agent. She hadn't found much. With the Problem raging, agents were in the highest demand, and it was hard to ignore all of the flyers and inquiries looking for one. Lockwood had been concerned she'd find nothing, constantly reminding her of his offer. One thing was clear, though: she was never becoming an agent again. She didn't need to say the words, but it was mutually understood even as Lockwood asked her to train with him.

Slowly, she gravitated toward relic collecting. It exercised her Talent, yet comforted her. She could be free from expectations, and not have to be perfect or clean; she could collect the relics on the River Thames and sell them. It would sustain her and calm her. Most importantly, it was an environment she was comfortable in.

As time went on, her straw hat became faded of color and gained splotches of mud on them. She traded her agent fit for a padded jacket and Wellington boots. It suit the job. For once, maybe she was happy.

"So, you're sure you don't want to become an agent?"

"Locky, the only reason I came was because you said you had liquorice. I'm perfectly happy as a relic woman." She smoothed down her padded jacket and adjusted her signature straw hat.

"I have my license now. I'm recruiting-"

"I'm happy where I am, thank you very much." She took a sip of tea and plopped a liquorice in her mouth.

Lockwood sighed. Florence Bonnard, as always, was impenetrably stubborn. she'd started going by Flo Bones, which was catchy, and fit her relic woman persona. Lockwood respected this. He could see how happy it made her, though not particularly sanitary.  He recalled the day she'd first told him of her new occupation. They'd been sitting on the banks of the River Thames, near where Lockwood had comforted her the morning after tragedy struck her.

"So... you're becoming a Relicwoman? Where will you get the sources?"

"The river has enough," she gestured to the muddy shore of the river. "My Sight's been getting stronger."

"Be careful, Flor-"

"Oh, and Locky, I've started going by Flo Bones - it's quite fitting, don't you think? I like it. It's catchy." She'd lifted her hat, just enough to wink at Lockwood before pulling it down again.

"Well, my offer will always stand, Flo. You're a spectacular agent - you know my address. 35 Portland Row, hasn't changed."

"You haven't an agency to work for, Locky, have you?" Flo mused bluntly.

"Working on the license. I plan to open my own agency, agent run. What d'you reckon I call it? I was thinking 'Lockwood and Company.'"

Flo gave a grunt of approval. "'Lockwood and Co.' It's decent."

"Thanks, Flo."

She'd nodded. "Now go. I can't be seen hanging about the lots of the upper class. See you, Locky."

He pushed the bag of liquorices to her, the memory making him smile sadly. "It's all yours." 

Lockwood couldn't find any agents willing to work for him. Flo, being one of his main friends, was painfully aware of this fact, subject to his forever hanging offer of employment. 

"Oh, cheer up. Don't be lonely. You'll find someone. Lockwood & Co.! It'll be known through all of England." She softened for a second. "Anyway, I have an auction to attend." She stood up, bits of dirt falling from her jacket. "Bye, Locky!" He reached out to her then restrained himself - but she'd already exited 35 Portland Row, shutting the door behind her.

"Bye, Flo." He stared at the closed door, at his slightly outstretched hand. He could only hope she was right, and he'd find someone soon.

[calumcest]

good morning :) loved the new drabbles and i was wondering if you'd write about 'actually.. i just miss you' and lashton again but like.. in the angel/devil au? i completely get it if not because you already wrote one with that prompt (and it was great) but i'm a sucker for this verse and the phrase just reminded me so much of them (oh and maybe alternatively for them if you don't want to use the prompt again: 'why do i love you?')

thank u so much!! omg i’m so glad you enjoyed the verse bc i am slyly living for it its very self-indulgent so any requests to write more in the angel/demon verse...how could i say no also forewarning this is not a drabble its 1.7k sdlkfjhsbdf 

Ashton, Michael prays, an edge of desperation to the word, and Ashton jerks up from the record of the soul he’s currently processing, focusing in on the prayer. Come down. I need you. 

What for? 

Luke. 

Ashton can’t help the butterflies in his stomach at that, and he swallows, pushing himself back from his desk. 

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t go. Michael’s more than capable of handling Lucifer - he’s proven that once before - and Ashton’s busy. He’s got at least three thousand more souls to process today. He doesn’t have the time to go down, doesn’t have the time to chase whatever stupid nonsense Lucifer’s up to now. He shouldn’t. 

Instead, he focuses in on Michael, lets his prayer swell in his heart, closes his eyes, and heads down. 

He turns up in the dark outside a restaurant, lit up by one feeble streetlight. He can feel that Lucifer’s in there, feel it in the burning, crawling sensation under his folded-in wings, so he takes a deep breath and pushes the door open. 

It’s nearly empty, save a table with Calum, dressed in all black, leather jacket catching the light as he gesticulates wildly, frowning. Michael’s opposite him, white shirt setting off his pale skin and blond hair, frowning right back at Calum, lips twisted in a way that Ashton knows firsthand means I know you’re right but I refuse to lose this argument. Lucifer’s sat next to Calum, looking incredibly bored with whatever’s happening, but, almost as though it were an instinct, his eyes are drawn to Ashton, north meeting south. 

Ashton swallows at the dark look in Lucifer’s eyes, and heads over to the table. 

“What?” he says, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as hoarse to everyone else as it does to him. 

“Oh, thank fuck,” Michael says, a look of relief spreading across his face. The curse rings loud and unholy in Ashton’s ears, and makes him wince slightly. Michael barely even notices. “Cal, let’s fucking go.” 

“Wait,” Ashton says, as both Calum and Michael scrape their chairs back, and Michael turns to look at him, faint annoyance etched in his features. 

“What?” he says. 

“What?” Ashton echoes, slightly incredulous. “You call me down here, and then you leave?” Michael shrugs. Ashton cannot believe him. “You said-” he cuts himself off, with a glance at Lucifer, who’s watching the exchange idly. Lucifer doesn’t miss the glance, and a lazy smile spreads across his face when he realises what the look means. 

“I just said I needed you,” Michael points out. 

“For Lucifer.” 

“Yeah, to keep him company,” Michael says, “while me and Cal go off and fuck.” Calum nods seriously at that. Ashton’s going to speak to Him about blanket banning consorting with demons. Michael’s getting worse by the day, and he was never good to begin with. 

“I think he can look after himself,” Ashton bites out, casting Lucifer another glance. Lucifer just looks back at him, amused smile playing on his lips. 

“No,” Michael says, placing a hand on Ashton’s shoulder, and Ashton feels it, feels the full weight of God’s love and holiness thrumming through his veins, heavy in Michael’s touch, stronger than any other angel. He kind of gets why Raphael hates Michael whenever he feels that. “I think you should be there with him.” He says it with the kind of gravity only an archangel can muster, and Ashton has no choice but to nod, because it’s an order. Michael grins at him, quick and easy, all seriousness gone, and pats him on the shoulder, right above his wing. Ashton winces, and falls into the seat Michael had been occupying. 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Lucifer calls after Calum and Michael as they head for the door. 

“There’s nothing you wouldn’t do,” Calum shoots back, and Lucifer grins wickedly. 

“Exactly,” he says, and both Michael and Calum roll their eyes fondly - and, okay, when did Michael become fond of Lucifer? Something rolls uncomfortably in Ashton’s stomach at that, but he pushes it aside, focusing on the task at hand. Keep Lucifer entertained. Keep him company. Ashton can do that. 

“So,” Lucifer says, blue eyes flicking to Ashton, lit up and amused. “Just me and you now.” Ashton nods tightly. 

“Looks like it,” he says. That just seems to amuse Lucifer even more, small smile stretching to a full grin. He leans back, tilting his head like he’s scrutinising Ashton, and suddenly there’s a cheeseburger in front of Ashton. 

Okay. Ashton’s not a fan of human food, he really isn’t, but Michael had gone on and on about cheeseburgers for at least fifty years, begging Ashton to come down and try one, and Ashton had eventually relented and said he’d try one if Michael brought one back up, which he’d duly done. It’s been at least forty years since that happened, and Ashton had only managed about ten before he’d caved and started taking the odd secret trip down to Earth for a cheeseburger. Nobody, though, nobody, not even Michael, knows about that. 

“I don’t eat human food,” Ashton says primly, because he doesn’t. Ashton may not be able to lie, but all that’s done is make him very good at bending the truth. 

“You eat cheeseburgers,” Lucifer says, like this is a well-known fact, and not something Ashton’s sworn Michael to secrecy on. 

“I-” Ashton’s cut off with a wince, holy power seizing his tongue, caught in an almost-lie. Lucifer grins, recognising the telltale signs of an angel trying to lie all too well. Ashton clears his throat in a dignified manner, hoping Lucifer can’t see the flush on his cheeks, and tries a different tack. “How do you know that?” Lucifer shrugs. 

“Kept tabs on you,” he says, and then proceeds to reel off Ashton’s cheeseburger order. “Double cheeseburger, extra pickles, no mayo, two tomatoes.” Ashton stares at him. 

“You stalked me?” he says, and it comes out a little strangled. He’s not sure whether that’s the holiness or the fact that his stomach has done, like, a full Olympics gymnastics set at the idea that Lucifer’s been keeping up with him, been watching him from afar. 

“Well, now, stalking is a strong word,” Lucifer says, grinning, because he doesn’t care, he’s the Devil. That thought sends a strong wave of revulsion coursing through Ashton, top to toe, followed immediately with a wave of guilt. He really hopes Raphael’s not tuned in to him right now. The last thing Ashton needs is someone spreading the word that Ashton’s hanging out with Satan. 

“You-” Ashton cuts himself off, because he’s not really sure what he wants to say. Lucifer watches him, half-amused, half-interested. Ashton feels the full weight of something under his gaze, but he’s not sure what it is - holy, sacrilegious, Heaven, Hell - and drops his gaze to the cheeseburger. 

“You should eat it,” Lucifer says casually. Ashton eyes it warily. 

“Do I look like an idiot?” he says. Lucifer rolls his eyes. 

“What, you think I’ve carved a banishing sigil into the lettuce?” he says, like it’s the most ludicrous idea in the world, and then stops. “Hmm. That might be one to try on Michael, actually.” Ashton, because he’s a good friend and an even better angel, dutifully sends a prayer in Michael’s direction informing him as such. Michael doesn’t respond, and Ashton withdraws before he gets too close to the dark spikes of whatever it is that Michael’s currently giving off. 

“I don’t want your food,” Ashton says, because it’s true, he doesn’t want Lucifer’s food, and pushes the cheeseburger away from him childishly. Lucifer rolls his eyes, but pulls the cheeseburger towards himself, and takes a huge bite out of it, holding Ashton’s gaze as he does. Ashton prays for the strength not to watch the line of his throat as he swallows, but He doesn’t seem to be listening. 

“Have you always been this fucking boring?” Lucifer comments idly, licking his finger obscenely, and oh, oh, the repentance for the thoughts that just went through Ashton’s head hits him like a train. He visibly flinches, and Lucifer grins. “Man, you know shit’s a lot more fun when you don’t feel shitty about every thought you have.” 

“I don’t feel bad,” Ashton grits out, because he doesn’t. Repentance is a necessary consequence of sin, and he always feels good that he’s repented. Lucifer shrugs, and takes another bite of the burger. Ashton swallows, not entirely because he kind of wishes the burger were going down his throat instead of Lucifer’s. Like he knows what Ashton’s thinking, Lucifer quirks a brow at him. 

“You can still have some,” he offers. 

“I-” Ashton winces again, unable to say I don’t want any, because he does, he really does. Lucifer laughs, and pushes the burger back towards Ashton, but there’s something fond in his eyes, and it makes Ashton feel a little sick with something that he tries not to identify as guilt. 

“Eat,” he says, and it’s soft, it’s gentle, and it breaks Ashton’s heart into a million pieces. The Devil shouldn’t have it in him to care about anyone, least of all Ashton. 

Ashton can’t rid himself of that sneaking suspicion, though, staring at the burger in trepidation, and Lucifer sighs. 

“You really don’t trust me, huh?” he says, and there’s a note of bitterness in his voice. Ashton hates it, hates himself more for causing it, hates the guilt and confusion that washes over him as an immediate consequence of both of those thoughts. 

“You are the Devil,” Ashton points out, and Lucifer huffs out a laugh. 

“I’d never fuck with my second-favourite angel,” he says solemnly. 

“I’m glad Michael’s safe, then,” Ashton shoots back before he can stop himself, and Lucifer grins, shaking his head. 

“Why do I love you?” he says, and there’s something so raw and wistful in his tone that Ashton wants to cry, wants to reach out, wants to tell him I’m sorry, I’m wish I could make it better, I wish I could fix this, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I wish I’d never loved you, I wish I’d found a way to stop loving you. 

Instead of saying anything, because nothing would be enough, and anything would be too much, he reaches forwards, picks up the burger, and brings it to his lips.

The radiant smile Lucifer gives him is all angel, no Devil.