Ficlet - Dark
There is a large, soft white feather on the Devil’s desk, touched with hints of pale blue. It carries a very faint scent of jasmine and sandalwood and Heaven, and Damien wonders who the owner was and how long it has been since the feather fell or was plucked.
“What are you doing here?”
The demon leaps back from the desk, standing straight, head bowed. Out of the corner of his eye, he can just make out the tip of a wing, the cold blue shine on the steel-coloured feathers making them look deadlier than any blade.
“You can look up, you know.” And he looks up into the face of Lucifer’s consort, and sucks in a breath. The dark blue eyes holding his gaze are strangely empty, as though something irreparable had been ripped out of his being, and he cannot look into them for long. His gaze slips down to the thin, crimson robe belted so loosely at the fallen angel’s waist, material falling open to expose fair skin, marred here and there by what appear to be bite marks, and he can’t help but stare hungrily. A small smirk curls the corners of Gabriel’s lips as he notes the other demon’s lustful gaze, fingers of one hand toying idly with the stem of his wineglass. Ruby-red wine swirls inside it, reflecting the lighting. “I asked you what you were doing here.”
Damien holds up a folder. “Lord Asmodeus told me to bring these to the Morningstar. They’re the reports on a man named LaVey.”
He has heard that the Morningstar’s consort was merciful, but mercy could be a cruel thing in Hell; the touch of kindness, the glimpse of hope, made the return to the wheel and the rack and the whips so much worse. He has also heard that the pale fallen angel is curious, and easily amused, and that his curiosity is a thing to be dreaded.
“Very good,” a different voice chimes in, and Lucifer enters the room, slipping an arm possessively around Gabriel’s slender waist. His golden eyes are hard, though almost as empty as his consort’s, and the message is clear: Mine. “I believe your instructions were to leave it on the desk, however.” Lucifer’s slender fingers take the wineglass from Gabriel’s hand, and he takes a sip before setting it on the desk pointedly.
Damien nods, sliding the folder onto the mahogany desk. Gabriel smiles at him, almost kindly. “Thank you.”
The lesser demon nods again, gaze slipping down to the floor, where the tips of steel and midnight wings and the hems of crimson and black robes brush polished cherry wood. Forgetfulness can be a dangerous thing in Hell; he has just remembered that he was promoted because his predecessor never returned from a similar errand, and he hopes to Someone that the erstwhile Messenger’s attention will be diverted. And perhaps he is lucky that day; Lucifer’s arm tightens, pulling Gabriel closer, and the Lord of Hell says, “Go.”
Damien quickly makes for the door. At the doorway, he pauses to look back. Gabriel is laughing, pinned between the desk and Lucifer’s body, fingers deftly undoing the Morningstar’s robes as Lucifer’s pale fingers thread through his own dark hair, gripping tightly to force his head back, exposing his throat. Gabriel’s hands reach back to grip the desk, and the scrabbling fingers send a stack of papers flying, though neither angel seems to care. As Damien closes the door behind him, he catches a glimpse of the papers floating slowly to the ground, a single pure feather among them.
.