Chapter Text
He doesn’t make a habit of drinking in excess, but he does keep a bottle of potent (and delicious) extra-aged whiskey in a hidden compartment in his desk. Mammon’s found it, of course, but he didn’t like the taste and couldn’t sell it since it had already been opened, so he left it alone.
Lucifer often finds himself sipping from a crystal glass as he unwinds, usually to the sound of one classical piece or another. But this particular day he needs to unwind more than usual. There had been a mess with one of the lower demons that attended RAD getting into some trouble by making a pact with a human back in the human realm that was causing the school some trouble. He’d wanted to expel the student immediately, but Diavolo insisted on seeing where it went. And, naturally, he had to defer.
So here he is, stewing and staring into his suddenly empty glass. It wasn’t always easy to defer to Diavolo and acquiesce, and when he felt strongly about it and felt that it was in everyone’s best interest, it was even more difficult. So he finds himself still far too tense, flipping to a different record and filling his glass again and going back to staring at some infuriatingly beautiful and tranquil painted human landscape that hung across his study. The colors remind him of your eyes, and that only makes it worse.
Three record changes later, and the painting is starting to come to life. His glass is empty again, but he can’t remember whether he has refilled it once, twice, or more times. Frustration is still tugging at the edges of his mind, but most clearly, he feels like he is missing something. Something is not quite right. He stands, knocking his chair back and barely catching it before it falls to the floor. He curses under his breath; it is late, right? The clock seems to be doing a weird dance when he looks at it; is the hand pointing to the 1? Or is that 11? Either way, the noise would have been noticeable. Waking up his brothers, or, devil forbid, you, would be inexcusable.
He turns and almost knocks the fountain pen and its holder off of the desk; since when were his wings out? Heavens, he’s a mess. He holds up the bottle and studies it with a grim expression. Damn, it went down far too easy. And now he is feeling much too warm and somehow still cold, a hollow in the center of his chest and a subtle tug. He knows exactly where that tug wants him to be, where he wants to be. But should he go? He shouldn’t. It would be highly inappropriate.
But then... what harm could come of it? You’d probably be asleep. And he could just... check on you. Maybe stand in your room for a moment. Just to make sure everything was okay.
His legs seem weirdly heavy, his head oddly light. He doesn’t quite remember climbing the stairs to your room, but one moment he’s standing in his study and the next he’s in front of your door. It seems oddly impassable, locked by a magical spell of better decisions. He rests for a moment with his hand on the door, hesitating. It’s only the thought of one of his brothers coming out of their rooms and catching him standing flush-faced outside your door that propels him inside.
The handle turns easily; the door creaks only once as it opens. The light from the hallway spills across your body, turned away from the doorway and curled up on your side. You don’t sleep with as many blankets as Belphegor does, but he recognizes a particular spotted pillow that looks familiar. A certain feeling burns in his throat for a moment. Jealousy?
There’s a certain part of his brain that tells him to turn back now, to go to his own bed or perhaps even back to his study. To go back to where he wouldn’t be caught in a moment like this. The alcohol and the other parts of his brain tell that part to shut up. So he gently pries the pillow out from where it’s tucked under the one you’re sleeping on, sliding an arm into its place to keep your position steady.
Your breath quickens for a moment and his own freezes in his chest, but you simply sigh and roll onto your back a little more. There’s a sprinkling of light from outside, and it highlights the peak of your nose, the tips of your eyelashes as they flutter for a moment, the bow of your top lip. Lucifer thinks that it’s very annoying how good you look right now, tangled up in your sheets. He realizes you’ve rolled on top of his arm, the pillow pinning you to the spot. Belphegor’s pillow is now on the floor, and he can’t even bring himself to feel bad about it. You’re more comfortable now, right?
He doesn’t dare pull away--nor does he want to. After all, it would be irresponsible to wake you up now. He would be jeopardizing your sleep and your grades. That simply would not do.
Are you cold? You look cold. You’re clutching the sheet tightly in one hand, the thin fabric pulled taut over your shoulder. There’s a blanket across the room on an armchair, but he can’t reach it. If you’re cold, you won’t sleep as well. And that’ll jeopardize your academics, and jeopardize the exchange program. He could just... help warm you up. That would be the responsible thing to do.
He keeps the arm under you steady as he gently kicks off his shoes, gently eases himself onto your bed. Oh, the mattress was comfortable. You stir for a moment, but he doesn’t stop. It’s almost too perfect, the way your body fits into the hollows of his own. The tugging in his chest has stopped. A soft sigh leaves your lips as you relax a little more, your nose twitching as a hair falls across your face. He brushes it away and leaves his arm there, draped over your side. Two of his wings are folded against his back, but the others curve protectively over you. Keeping you warm, keeping you safe. Doing the responsible thing.
You wake up as soon as he opens the door but don’t dare let him know for fear he’ll bolt. There’s alcohol on his breath, but it only smells sweet and slightly spicy. You figure he’ll turn and leave, but when his hand snakes under your pillow you can barely believe it. He stays still for a moment, and you desperately want to open your eyes and see his face, but you do your damnedest to feign sleep. It seems to work, because after several long moments you feel and hear movement again. And then the mattress is dipping down with added weight, and you let yourself move slightly with it.
You can barely keep your breath steady as he’s suddenly beside you, pressed up against your body. He’s very warm and definitely drunk. There’s no other way he’d actually be doing this. He’s always been distant, cordial but cold. And now he’s brushing a hair away that is tickling your nose, threatening to make you sneeze and dispel the illusion. The feather-light touch turns into the comforting weight of an arm resting on the curve of your hip. Keeping you pressed to his chest, enveloped by him. Protected.
A rustle of feathers causes you to realize that his wings are present--and that is the most tempted you’ve been to open your eyes the entire time. To see the raven black iridescence gleaming in the light from the window. When the wings cover you you resolve to wait until he’s asleep to see. You don’t have to wait long; in a matter of minutes his face presses deeper into the crook of your neck and his breath fans slow and warm across your shoulder. You open your eyes, just a sliver at first, and then wider when you feel it’s safe. You see the arm wrapped firmly around your waist, ungloved hands and well-manicured nails splayed across the sheet covering your body. The wings are spread carefully over you like a blanket, the tips of the feathers trembling with each breath Lucifer or you take.
It’s an agonizing 100 seconds you count, weighing the pros and cons of a high-risk move. But you go for it and pray he’s drunk enough to sleep through it. You roll over, holding your breath, but by some miracle he doesn’t even stir. So there you settle in, his head tucked into the crook of your neck and wings covering your entire body. You return the gesture of the arm around your waist, covering his with your own. Your other hand you let roam across the expanse of his chest before it comes to rest right over the steady beat of his heart.
You spend several long moments studying what you can see of his face beneath the disheveled black hair, his cheekbones and a hint of eyelashes peeking out. It’s a precious opportunity, and it’s almost with a sense of loss that you let yourself be lulled back to sleep by the steady rise and fall of Lucifer’s chest. He’ll be gone in the morning, you knew. But, perhaps, you’ll get the courage to return the favor one night. And you won’t run away.