Lilah, you're my only home, and I can't make it on my own.

[wrongmagician]

WHO: meaculpable & wrongmagician
WHERE: the Lux
WHEN: TODAY *thunderclap*
WARNINGS: none
SUMMARY: Tattoo removal 101. Also, deal making 101, Tim, you poor dumbass.
FORMAT: para!

Comments

[meaculpable]

Lucifer is finishing a drink at the bar when the boy arrives. He downs the last vestiges of his Martini when the doors open behind him, and withholds an amused chuckle at Timothy's expense, already feeling his trepidation, his hesitance course through the air like some invisible ghost all too spooked over what was to come.

"Good afternoon, Timothy." the Morningstar says, turning to face the child, his face unreadable. "I was wondering when you'd find your way here."

The Lux stands mostly empty, with several tables and chairs being all that stands between the two. Save for its newest arrival and its proprietor, none will be present for what is about to transpire. Lucifer motions to one of the chairs next to him, nodding his head. "You'll join me for a drink before we get these events underway, won't you?"

[wrongmagician]

His eyes are a little wide, he knows, but perhaps that's not a bad thing. Blinking once at Lucifer's invitation, he nods hesitantly as he moves forward to join the Morningstar.

"Thanks. Not," he ventures, relieved that his voice sounds fairly normal, "that I, um. You know." Success: he even manages to inject his words with wryness. "Drink." Which he's sure Lucifer does know, but he's going to drink whatever is put in front of him anyway.

His chest tightens almost imperceptibly, but Tim ignores it; its time has come and the gladness of it momentarily alleviates his anxiety.

[meaculpable]

He's got to be gentle with this one, he knows. One wrong move, one silent threat perceived will send him running away like the rabbit he's trying so hard not to be. Lucifer offers Timothy a smile, stands, then makes his way behind the bar at a leisurely pace, his gaze keeping to whatever is in front of him at all times. Perception was all magi cared about, in the end.

"I'd lose my license if you did," he replies, ducking down to retrieve a bottle of water for himself and his guest. "Here." and then, after a moment. "And you can relax. It'll go that much easier for you if you aren't on edge."

Which was somewhat of a lie, but. It really couldn't be helped. Pain was pain, and it went hand in hand with power. The removal of one always brought the onset of the other.

[wrongmagician]

Tim tries a smile and fears the result is probably somewhat ghastly, but it can't be helped. He just breathes, and sips his water, trying to do as Lucifer suggested.

"It hurt a lot going on," he says after a moment. "I imagine it'd be the same coming off."

So he's learned that much, at least. "The first time, she said — Circe said, that is — that I shouldn't cry out. Same deal?"

[meaculpable]

"Not necessarily, no." Again, the half-truth, the subtle egging on toward an implication of safety. "But it will make the entire ordeal less of an annoyance on my part if you do keep quiet."

He lets out a small laugh to try and lighten the mood, hoping that the boy isn't too much of a worrier to forgo black humor.

[wrongmagician]

That gets a half-smile from him, and a bit of a ducked head. "I can do that. At least."

It's very probably a wrong impression to feel reassurance from Lucifer, he's sure, but even ignoring that, he's fairly certain this will turn out okay. Either it's a rare moment of optimism or he's developing some kind of instinct, misguided or not.

[meaculpable]

Good, he's loosening up. That'll make the excruciating pain that less of an issue. Lucifer slowly draws a sip from his bottle of water, closing his eyes as he quickly runs through a mental list of hazards that may or may not present within the boy without his knowing.

"--You said it was Circe that did this to you, correct?"

[wrongmagician]

"Yes." All in one night, too, but he doesn't think that detail will be especially helpful. Tim takes advantage of Lucifer's shut eyes to curiously examine his face (not that he imagines Lucifer wouldn't know what he was doing, but it seems more polite) wondering why this — manifestation, if that's the right word. Why this form. Perhaps it's not a choice?

[meaculpable]

He ignores the peering for all of ten seconds, finishing off his bottle of water in the interim. Timothy is not the first human to wonder the why of Lucifer, and he certainly won't be the last to analyze, to try and find reason in his outer appearance. So many imagined Lucifer to be much more than what he was, after all.

"Find something you like, Timothy?" he asks, a wry smile playing at the edge of his lips.

[wrongmagician]

A single blink is followed by another ducking of the head, one hand finding the back of his neck in muted embarrassment. "Sorry. Just wondering. If you always looked like this, or if you chose it... not that it's any of my business."

[meaculpable]

He smiles, and it's a soft, genuine thing. He did not choose this form, no, but it was the one he was the most comfortable with. Minus his wings, of course.

"While form defines function for many immortal beings," he explains, still smiling as he speaks. "Yahweh was very particular in how I and my brother were to be."

[wrongmagician]

It seemed like Lucifer never really answered the question he asked, but gave the answer to a more precise question he should have asked instead. Tim takes that to mean the form hadn't been chosen, however. It's strange to imagine that this form sprang directly from God's imagination, if you could call it that. It makes him feel very young and small, but he isn't nervous anymore.

"Oh," he says quietly, drinking his water and setting the bottle down.

[meaculpable]

He leaves it that, knowing that any more exposition would be little more than stalling, at this point. If the boy had further questions about how Yahweh structured the universe, he could very well ask them after the removal. Lucifer closes his eyes, cricking his neck to the left while rubbing its right side with his black gloved hand.

"Shall we begin?"

[wrongmagician]

Nodding wordlessly, Tim hesitates, then pulls his shirt off with the acute, self-conscious awkwardness of a British teenager. The scorpion and moth spread across his chest are garishly colored, bright and malevolent in their inked presence. It's the kind of tattoo that is majestic in its terribleness, captivating as a traffic accident. Tim utters a soft sigh of resigned embarrassment.

Lucifer can probably see where each tattoo is entangled with Tim's soul, and what they're for as well.

[meaculpable]

It's a horrid mishmash, a near-kaleidoscope of cool pastels and flat, fleshy tones that stand out far, far too much against Timothy's skin. Lucifer cracks open a single eye, scanning the tattoos quickly before giving the appearance of handing Timothy all his attention.

"This will hurt," he warns, before stretching out his right hand and calling a single wooden table toward them both, the thing almost rocketing to the Morningstar's grip once called. "And it will burn most unpleasantly afterward."