divinity ♱ luke hemmings

Chapter 10: "No More Small Talk. Stab Me."

CHAPTER TEN
"No More Small Talk. Stab Me."

• LUCIFER / LUKE HEMMINGS •

Calum is busy building a gingerbread house even though it's two full months until Jesus' birthday and I'm panicking. I am pacing the floor, creating a draft and waiting impatiently for Michael to get back with an array of different weapons designed to kill me; or, hopefully, create little raised marks on my skin like they should.

He offers me a little green gummy covered in sugar and although I deny it, he insists, annoyingly so. I let out out a sigh and the sweet dissolves on my tongue, sickeningly sweet and otherwise tasteless, but it makes the child of a man happy so I say nothing.

"What are you so worried about, Luci?" he asks me. He's changed now; the Christmas cactus pyjamas had to have some time in the wash and he's opted to stealing even more of my clothes. Which is irritating, because Angels don't wear Prada; Devils do.

"I'm not worried," I lie, but I am. I'm very fucking worried.

I haven't left the apartment in three days and thankfully, Sophie doesn't have my number, so I don't have to make any bullshit excuses as to why I've been in hiding. She hasn't come to visit me either, which is a plus, because I already know she won't without a good reason.

I've mostly just been avoiding people, with some app called 'Uber Eats' being my best friend and my brothers providing me inadequate company. It wasn't really the luxurious five-star getaway I'd been planning before I slipped out of the gates, but it couldn't be helped.

"Great! You're here," Michael is lugging two gym bags worth of equipment, ranging from Swiss knives to machetes and guns (America is terrifying), and I watch with eager eyes as he places them down in front of me.

"Mhm. These were expensive, by the way," he raises an eyebrow, "How much money is on that card of yours?"

"Enough." I answer plainly, before clapping my hands together and leaning back, "Now, no more small talk. Stab me."

"Woah," Calum finally looks up from his lopsided gingerbread shelter (I wouldn't call it a house, really, as the door's on the roof) and shoots me an uneasy look, "Right now?"

"Right now," I nod. As Michael places his hands on his hips and surveys the threatening things, he looks at me, uncharacteriscally uneasy considering he's hated me for the good side of a millennia.

"I don't see what the need is for all of this. A kitchen knife would do fine," he reasons.

"Yes but see, I'm the Devil," I tell him, my grin forced, "And I refuse to get murdered with a blade shorter than the average male penis,"

"What is the average?" Calum asks in a mumble, either much too concentrated on his house or scarred from seeing his own, "Nevermind."

"Come on," I nod at Michael, and together we begin unpacking the gym bags.

I don't know what's going on with him but he isn't so determined to get me back to Hell anymore. Of course, there's still a sense of urgency and I doubt we'll get through that without a long conversation and- very possibly- a fight to the death, but for now I can remain blissfully oblivious.

In a way, it's nice, having them both here. Maybe this is that family thing that Sophie was talking about. It's fucking irritating most of the time, sure, but when those small pockets of normality happen, they happen, and they feel fucking great when they do.

"Alright," Michael sighs. He's finally ditched the spiky jacket and the oddly shaped hair, opting instead for neon red and a flannel to match. I have to admit, it looks good on him, "Remind me again why we're doing this?"