returnjourneylogs | hey there passengers, it's me, ya commissary

Lucifer is a little startled, admittedly, since he wasn’t aware he was being creeped on. But, the surprise passes quickly, replaced with nothing if not vague curiosity. There’s no fear, nervousness, shame or embarrassment present. Those things mostly just aren’t in Lucifer’s repertoire.

“Evening,” he says pleasantly. “The creepy lurking like a bat thing would be more effective if you were dressed for it, but the glowy eye gets you bonus points.”

"You are," He points out. "The one slithering about caves."

The bat was here first. Silco sets the glass aside.

"I confess little taste for its copies," A gesture to the machine. What else would Lucifer be pocketing so deliberately off-schedule? "Touchdown's acquisition may strike, mn — hyperbolic —"

The lift of his eyebrows is an invitation to some ugly joke.

"— But rather to the heart."

“I’d hardly call what I’m doing slithering,” Lucifer says with a faint scoff. The serpent metaphors just got tiresome after a while.

He adjusts his cuffs absently. “A photograph is already a copy, so it doesn’t matter much, all things considered. Don’t worry, I won’t be adding to the foam spouse population. My partner would find it off-putting, even if I was inclined to cast her in foam, which I’m not.”

Sorry, Lucifer. You pick your fursona, and you're locked in for life.

"One imitation is as another," A loose gesture. "Though such raises the question of memory. A well to dredge another day."

There are stories of serpents everywhere: There once was a king who fished scales from the square; raised them up as a brother. He pushes off the table to stand. The indication of fingers,

"Is it of her?"

Lucifer smiles, it's a smile that says he's comfortable with both this topic of conversation and his general place in the universe.

"The photo? It's of the two of us, yes. But if you ever really want to dive into memories, all you have to do is ask. I'm always willing to hop into the SIRE with an inmate and go spelunking."

The SIRE is possibly the place on the ship he's most comfortable, for a number of reasons.

It's late. The bore of his eye is a deep ache, dull only for its familiarity; he's unlikely to sleep much this night, or the next. Dreams coil.

No harm in dipping the bucket to them here.

"I'd like to see her."

Agreement. And - he's making for the door. They're going now, right?

They’re going now, apparently. Lucifer is unbothered by this. He’s not an insomniac, but sleep is a bit less important to him than to a human.

“Sure, happy to,” he says amiably. He has nothing in particular to hide about his relationship with Chloe. Why should he? She’s one of the best things that’s ever happened to him. And sure, it strokes his ego a bit every time someone expresses an interest in his life - his real life, rather than simply making assumptions.

“But I’ll expect you to show me someone important in your life, in return,” he adds. “If not tonight, then soon.”

Tit for tat. “It’s only fair, wouldn’t you agree?”

The twist of his head is slow, brow sketched pantomime: An echo of that earlier joke, fairness.

But if he's any true objection, it doesn't stall his pace.

"Tonight will do," The SIRE looms. Silco leans against the wall beside, to let Lucifer shoulder through to the lock. Closer than is strictly polite. "I believe I've one in mind."

"Good." Silco can loom, lurk, and generally be as creepy as he likes - Lucifer is unaffected by such tactics. It's just really hard to creep the Devil out. He's almost always the scariest thing in the room, even though he might not look it.

He operates the SIRE with the expertise of someone who's been doing this several times already. Ushering Silco inside, he speaks aloud - naming a very specific date, time, and place. This isn't a generalized sort of thing. It's a memory. Maybe an important one.

A scene plays out, and it's obvious that Lucifer's memory is very good, very detailed. At least, when it comes to this memory - the woman is pretty, and maybe her eyes are a little more blue than they would be in real life, maybe her hair is a little shinier, maybe she stands out a bit, like there's a slight spotlight on her that throws everything else around her into a bit of shadow, because she is the most important thing in the room. At least, to Lucifer she is. It has the warm, burnished quality of a moment that's looked back on in hindsight with fondness, affection, colored by everything that happened after.

"Silco, meet Chloe," he says eventually, that soft, nostalgic smile on his face.

(There are habits one adopts in a box. The ritual signs of I am not an easy target. You wear them long enough, and you forget they weren't skin.)

Silco lifts a glass from its background blur, the imagined clink of ice. There’s no bite to it: The SIRE’s never so thorough as you’d like, certainly not here, at the hatched edges of Lucifer’s attention. He’s familiar with affection, obsession; the worry-stone wear of light and colour. Moments rendered softer. Kinder.

He wonders, briefly, if he’s inflated her tits.

"She's pretty," He tips the glass to her retreating form. In truth, it strikes distasteful, a pairing of pigs. But — "I trust it went better from there."

Wry. Genuine. He drifts closer, a gesture tugging suit and cravat into place. Illusory as the rest, and reeking of half-remembered tobacco, but at least his scrawny chicken legs are covered. Leaned upon the edge of the piano,

"How long have you played?"

He makes no move to stop Silco from exploring. Anyone else might feel weird, exposing their own memories to a near-stranger like this, but not Lucifer. He’s familiar, not just with the SIRE but the concept more generally, and he’s confident in his own memories. There’s nothing Silco can do here that would disturb or upset or anger him.

“Eventually, once I got my head out of my arse,” he comments, with a self-awareness that was not evident in the memory itself. He wasn’t kidding, all those times he said he’s grown and changed. It’s part of why he can look back at this memory with such fondness, and not be concerned with how cringe he was. There’s no point being embarrassed about it.

He touches a glass lightly, but doesn’t pick it up, doesn’t try to taste the amber liquid inside. He knows it wouldn’t be satisfying - only frustrating. The piano is similar. It’s just not the same as the real thing and the music doesn’t work as well, so he doesn’t bother. Lets the memory do it for him.

“Oh, I’ve played practically forever,” he says in answer to the question. “When did humans invent the piano? I picked it up in probably the seventeenth century, or something like it. Then all the time in Hell. Time passes differently in Hell.”

His tone is easy, forthcoming. Unlike Silco, he has no secrets. “Did you read Milton yet?”

"Oh, yes," Mild. It rambles over him - that easy way Lucifer has - someone speaking for the sake of it; fingers upon keys. "Though you're thinner than I expected."

Deadpan:

"To fit down the chimneys, I suppose."

Edited 2022-03-27 07:05 (UTC)

It takes Lucifer a moment. Chimneys? Why would he -

Oh.

He lets out a bark of laughter. "Right, yes, Satan - Santa. I'd never ruin a perfectly good Armani suit by climbing down a chimney."

hey there passengers, it's me, ya commissary

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sorry he's such a dick

i cackled

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