fic: hallelujah, we'll make it last
Okay, so apparently when I want to indulge myself, this is what I write. Yeah, I don't know, I really couldn't help myself. My thoughts were pretty much: BOBBY ROCKS. NICK!LUCIFER ROCKS. BOBBY + LUCIFER = SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, and then this just kind of happened.
OMGWTF: unbeta'd; Bobby-POV; preseries AU, but general spoilers for s5 (how does that even happen?), I guess; there is no reason this should exist, except I can imagine a whole timeline in which Bobby is the most important factor in Lucifer's plans, and the idea of Lucifer checking in on him and being all evil and knowing and oddly loving is...GAH. So.
hallelujah, we'll make it last
"You love your wife."
Simple words, nothing he'd ever deny, but as far as Bobby knows, no one's home. Just him, in his study. Rain steady and heavy enough that he's staying in, even when Karen said she had to go shopping.
He spins around, sees a tired looking man standing still in the middle of the room. There's a gun in the table behind the stranger, but that's it. Nothing closer. Nothing within reach.
"Who are you?"
The man laughs. "I don't think you'd believe me."
Bobby could try to get around him, get to the drawer, but there's no way it wouldn't be obvious. The guy'd figure it out before Bobby could do a damn thing. "Try me." What was it cops always said? Keep 'em talking?
Keep 'em spilling whatever's in their heads. Keep 'em focused away from their target. So maybe Bobby could talk him out of whatever he's here for, or make sure nobody gets hurt before Bobby can get him to leave.
The man says, "No. Not yet."
Bobby's never been much of a sweet talker. He doesn't know what to do with anything he's given.
"You're going to need me, Robert Singer."
The man doesn't move, but he seems to get closer all the same, seems to suck the air from the room. He's intent, eyes narrowed and stern, staring at Bobby like he's the only thing that matters. Bobby wants to say no; he wants to turn and head for the door. Wants escape, even the cold, driving rain pelting outside. He thinks it'd be better. He knows it'd sure be a helluva lot safer.
He asks, "How do you know Karen?"
The man raises an arm, and it almost - flickers - or moves too quick, too fluidly. His fingers brush his eyebrow, his forehead, like he's thinking hard, remembering. The movements seem odd, fake, like a puppet jerking on its strings. "You could say...mutual friend." His grin is stretched, cold, sharp over teeth and gums. Bobby looks away, darts his eyes to the side, to the dust-free shelves and unstained wood. "She's a good person, you know. An honestly good person."
"I think you should go."
"I will. You should sit." And Bobby does. The worn fabric and flat padding presses into his back, and he can't pull away, can't get his body to listen. "It's so peaceful here." The guy looks around, like Bobby's study is the wide open world, or something precious.
"What do you want?" Easy words, firm and steady. It surprises Bobby. "Why are you here?"
The guy's hands drift behind his back. His shoulders twitch, and Bobby hears a rusty drawer pull open. He hears the drag of something heavy being pulled free, and shuts his eyes for a second. The gun's the only thing in there. "Look - "
"Don't worry," the guy interrupts. "We're fine." The guy's holding the gun in front of him, waist high, both palms cupped around it. It's old, something he rebuilt by hand, nice and careful. It's more sentimental than anything, since his best guns are kept in the glass gun cabinet. Karen's compromise.
This one still works, though.
The guy's gaze is fixed on Bobby, unblinking for the most part, but once or twice he does, slow sweeps of his lids, like he has to force his eyes shut. He gets the gun by the butt, flips it into the air, lets it fall back into his hand. The motions are smooth and practiced. Meant for show and nothing else.
"There's so many things I need. Time. People." The guy sets the gun on top of the table. The metal glints dully in the light. "I've been searching for it. All this time, Bobby. And I don't mean that figuratively, either. I've been searching Time for that one perfect variable that will give me what I need."
No, Bobby's brain says. This don't make a lick of sense. Karen's out shopping. I'm sleeping, that's all. This is a dream.
"You," the man steps closer. One, two, and Bobby doesn't want him that close, really damn lucid dream or no, but he can't shift away, and he doesn't think words would do the trick, either. "You are that variable. Will be, anyway, once you're the person you need to be." Bobby sees a flicker of upset, wants to latch on to that, point it out and refuse to move until he knows what the hell is going on, but the guy steamrolls past it. "Everything and everyone I need, you'll already have. You're my meal ticket, Bobby."
The man slides to his knees off center to Bobby's chair. His hand is smooth and pale when he covers one of Bobby's. The guy's skin is freezing, and Bobby wonders how something that cold can be alive, but then the man's gripping Bobby's hand tight, staring at the mash of fingers and skin almost reverently. For a second, Bobby thinks he's going to kiss it, like Bobby's some damsel in a movie or something. The guy finally shifts, fingers slipping down and through until their grip becomes some kind of weird handshake. "You can call me Nick."
The grin's out of place, better suited to a hyena on the kill, and Bobby almost sighs in relief when it disappears. "Nick," he repeats, aware of how dumb he sounds, but he thinks he's allowed. Dream or not, this is. This is too damn much.
But - Nick - nods. "Thank you," he says then, and Bobby doesn't think the man's referring to Bobby using his name. "That's why I'm here. To say thank you."
Nick leans over Bobby's chair. There's age in his look, and something darker. Anger, maybe, or grief. Sorrow.
"Oh, Bobby," and when he says Bobby's name there's familiarity in it, like he's known Bobby for a long time. Bobby doesn't argue the point. "I would spare you if I could."
A chill walks Bobby's spine, but Nick's still there, even closer, now. There's a ghost of breath across his forehead, then a press of lips. Warmth against his skin when he hears, "I wish you would remember." What, Bobby wants to say, but the words stick in his throat. Remember what? "It's okay. When it counts, I'll keep you sane."
He's given space then, and he knows he could move. He could stand, or push, or run. He doesn't. He's still being looked at, looked over, with kind eyes and a stern face. Bittersweet affection. Wake up, he thinks, if this is a dream, wake up.
He breathes in, out. His heart aches in his chest. Everything stays the same
"Bobby!"
It's Karen's voice, bright and cheerful. A slam of the door. Bobby jerks, Nick's hands settle against his cheeks, stroke the skin there. Soothing him. Trying to.
"Bobby, come help me! I've got to unload these groceries and it's raining like anything out there!"
He hears footsteps coming closer. "Yeah," he yells, looking straight at Nick. "I'm comin'."
The fingers tighten for an instant, Nick's head bows, chin tucked inward like the words hurt, like they're something to flinch away from.
Keep me sane, Bobby thinks. I'm already going crazy.
When Nick says, "You'll be everything I need," it's whisper-soft and pained. Bobby blinks against it, trying to get some kind of sense back, trying to figure the whole conversation out or find something to say, but when he opens his eyes, he's alone.
He hears a thud, a loud crash, and then Karen's voice drifts through the door, muffled words slowly rising toward anger. He smiles, shaking off the unease prickling his skin, and goes to help.
and here, have the second installment of the devil goes down to Bobby's
OMGWTF: unbeta'd; Bobby-POV; preseries AU, but general spoilers for s5 (how does that even happen?), I guess; there is no reason this should exist, except I can imagine a whole timeline in which Bobby is the most important factor in Lucifer's plans, and the idea of Lucifer checking in on him and being all evil and knowing and oddly loving is...GAH. So.
hallelujah, we'll make it last
"You love your wife."
Simple words, nothing he'd ever deny, but as far as Bobby knows, no one's home. Just him, in his study. Rain steady and heavy enough that he's staying in, even when Karen said she had to go shopping.
He spins around, sees a tired looking man standing still in the middle of the room. There's a gun in the table behind the stranger, but that's it. Nothing closer. Nothing within reach.
"Who are you?"
The man laughs. "I don't think you'd believe me."
Bobby could try to get around him, get to the drawer, but there's no way it wouldn't be obvious. The guy'd figure it out before Bobby could do a damn thing. "Try me." What was it cops always said? Keep 'em talking?
Keep 'em spilling whatever's in their heads. Keep 'em focused away from their target. So maybe Bobby could talk him out of whatever he's here for, or make sure nobody gets hurt before Bobby can get him to leave.
The man says, "No. Not yet."
Bobby's never been much of a sweet talker. He doesn't know what to do with anything he's given.
"You're going to need me, Robert Singer."
The man doesn't move, but he seems to get closer all the same, seems to suck the air from the room. He's intent, eyes narrowed and stern, staring at Bobby like he's the only thing that matters. Bobby wants to say no; he wants to turn and head for the door. Wants escape, even the cold, driving rain pelting outside. He thinks it'd be better. He knows it'd sure be a helluva lot safer.
He asks, "How do you know Karen?"
The man raises an arm, and it almost - flickers - or moves too quick, too fluidly. His fingers brush his eyebrow, his forehead, like he's thinking hard, remembering. The movements seem odd, fake, like a puppet jerking on its strings. "You could say...mutual friend." His grin is stretched, cold, sharp over teeth and gums. Bobby looks away, darts his eyes to the side, to the dust-free shelves and unstained wood. "She's a good person, you know. An honestly good person."
"I think you should go."
"I will. You should sit." And Bobby does. The worn fabric and flat padding presses into his back, and he can't pull away, can't get his body to listen. "It's so peaceful here." The guy looks around, like Bobby's study is the wide open world, or something precious.
"What do you want?" Easy words, firm and steady. It surprises Bobby. "Why are you here?"
The guy's hands drift behind his back. His shoulders twitch, and Bobby hears a rusty drawer pull open. He hears the drag of something heavy being pulled free, and shuts his eyes for a second. The gun's the only thing in there. "Look - "
"Don't worry," the guy interrupts. "We're fine." The guy's holding the gun in front of him, waist high, both palms cupped around it. It's old, something he rebuilt by hand, nice and careful. It's more sentimental than anything, since his best guns are kept in the glass gun cabinet. Karen's compromise.
This one still works, though.
The guy's gaze is fixed on Bobby, unblinking for the most part, but once or twice he does, slow sweeps of his lids, like he has to force his eyes shut. He gets the gun by the butt, flips it into the air, lets it fall back into his hand. The motions are smooth and practiced. Meant for show and nothing else.
"There's so many things I need. Time. People." The guy sets the gun on top of the table. The metal glints dully in the light. "I've been searching for it. All this time, Bobby. And I don't mean that figuratively, either. I've been searching Time for that one perfect variable that will give me what I need."
No, Bobby's brain says. This don't make a lick of sense. Karen's out shopping. I'm sleeping, that's all. This is a dream.
"You," the man steps closer. One, two, and Bobby doesn't want him that close, really damn lucid dream or no, but he can't shift away, and he doesn't think words would do the trick, either. "You are that variable. Will be, anyway, once you're the person you need to be." Bobby sees a flicker of upset, wants to latch on to that, point it out and refuse to move until he knows what the hell is going on, but the guy steamrolls past it. "Everything and everyone I need, you'll already have. You're my meal ticket, Bobby."
The man slides to his knees off center to Bobby's chair. His hand is smooth and pale when he covers one of Bobby's. The guy's skin is freezing, and Bobby wonders how something that cold can be alive, but then the man's gripping Bobby's hand tight, staring at the mash of fingers and skin almost reverently. For a second, Bobby thinks he's going to kiss it, like Bobby's some damsel in a movie or something. The guy finally shifts, fingers slipping down and through until their grip becomes some kind of weird handshake. "You can call me Nick."
The grin's out of place, better suited to a hyena on the kill, and Bobby almost sighs in relief when it disappears. "Nick," he repeats, aware of how dumb he sounds, but he thinks he's allowed. Dream or not, this is. This is too damn much.
But - Nick - nods. "Thank you," he says then, and Bobby doesn't think the man's referring to Bobby using his name. "That's why I'm here. To say thank you."
Nick leans over Bobby's chair. There's age in his look, and something darker. Anger, maybe, or grief. Sorrow.
"Oh, Bobby," and when he says Bobby's name there's familiarity in it, like he's known Bobby for a long time. Bobby doesn't argue the point. "I would spare you if I could."
A chill walks Bobby's spine, but Nick's still there, even closer, now. There's a ghost of breath across his forehead, then a press of lips. Warmth against his skin when he hears, "I wish you would remember." What, Bobby wants to say, but the words stick in his throat. Remember what? "It's okay. When it counts, I'll keep you sane."
He's given space then, and he knows he could move. He could stand, or push, or run. He doesn't. He's still being looked at, looked over, with kind eyes and a stern face. Bittersweet affection. Wake up, he thinks, if this is a dream, wake up.
He breathes in, out. His heart aches in his chest. Everything stays the same
"Bobby!"
It's Karen's voice, bright and cheerful. A slam of the door. Bobby jerks, Nick's hands settle against his cheeks, stroke the skin there. Soothing him. Trying to.
"Bobby, come help me! I've got to unload these groceries and it's raining like anything out there!"
He hears footsteps coming closer. "Yeah," he yells, looking straight at Nick. "I'm comin'."
The fingers tighten for an instant, Nick's head bows, chin tucked inward like the words hurt, like they're something to flinch away from.
Keep me sane, Bobby thinks. I'm already going crazy.
When Nick says, "You'll be everything I need," it's whisper-soft and pained. Bobby blinks against it, trying to get some kind of sense back, trying to figure the whole conversation out or find something to say, but when he opens his eyes, he's alone.
He hears a thud, a loud crash, and then Karen's voice drifts through the door, muffled words slowly rising toward anger. He smiles, shaking off the unease prickling his skin, and goes to help.
and here, have the second installment of the devil goes down to Bobby's