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Summary
“Alright,” Lucifer says, turning back to the counter to take the next customer’s order, “And what can I get started for yo—”
His smile pulls tight and uncomfortable across his face, surely looking more akin to a grimace than anything resembling the simple joy that was present only moments before.
Not him again…
“Do you typically take this long to acknowledge a customer, or are you just feeling especially inadequate today?” Alastor’s voice is irritatingly soothing, full of an easy confidence that Lucifer would love to say is misplaced—but, frustratingly, he can’t.
The man has been coming here for the better part of three months. Danced in on a breeze from out of town, some sort of up-and-coming audio engineer trying to wiggle his way into the recording booth, from what Lucifer had been able to gather.
Innocent. Innocuous.
It wasn’t something he’d normally have any issue with and, though their first meeting in the café hadn’t exactly been warm and fuzzy, it wasn’t outright hostile, either. There was something off about him that Lucifer couldn’t quite put a finger on—until the bodies started piling up.