Lucifer wasn't a man of modesty and his penthouse reflected that. Expansive. Lavish. Every inch of it curated to perfection—fine art on the walls, a grand piano near the balcony, a bar stocked with the rarest of spirits.
He saw the way Stephen hesitated at the entrance, his gaze flickering across the luxurious space, the way his fingers briefly curled like he was stopping himself from gawking.
Lucifer smirked.
Oh, he noticed. But Strange, ever prickly and stubborn, refused to acknowledge any of it. Instead, he cleared his throat and muttered, "Just make the damn food."
Lucifer chuckled, shrugging off his coat as he made his way toward the kitchen.
"Well, aren't you a demanding guest?" he teased, rolling up his sleeves. "Lucky for you, I did promise a meal. Something quick, don't worry—simple, but perfect."
He reached for the ingredients already waiting on the pristine marble counter, all prepared beforehand with a simple flick of his wrist.
"Carbonara," he announced smoothly, already setting water to boil. "A classic."
Stephen, still standing near the entrance, narrowed his eyes.
Lucifer noticed the way his gaze flickered toward the pre-arranged ingredients.
Ah.
Suspicion.
Lucifer bit back a grin.
"Something wrong, Doctor?"
Stephen folded his arms. "Just making sure you don't poison me."
Lucifer barked out a laugh, reaching for the eggs and pancetta.
"Oh, Stephen, if I wanted you dead, I wouldn't bother with something as mundane as food poisoning." He winked. "Too much effort."
Stephen exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple like he already regretted this. Even so, he stepped closer.
Lucifer saw it. The curiosity.
The way Strange, despite himself, wanted to observe. To watch him cook.
Lucifer relished it.
Cooking, after all, was an art and Lucifer was a master. Even without his powers, he moved with grace, hands deftly cracking eggs, whisking yolks, slicing pancetta with precise, effortless cuts.
The water boiled—pasta went in.
The pancetta sizzled—fat rendering beautifully in the pan.
Lucifer poured himself a glass of wine, taking a slow sip as he worked, golden eyes flickering toward Stephen.
"You know," he mused, "it's quite rude to watch a man so intensely without offering conversation."
Stephen huffed, arms still crossed. "I'm watching for safety reasons."
Lucifer grinned.
"Of course," he said smoothly, voice teasing. "Purely practical."
Stephen didn't respond, but Lucifer didn't miss the way his eyes lingered—on his hands, on the fluidity of his movements.On him.
Lucifer smirked to himself.
Oh, he was enjoying this and Stephen was trying very hard to pretend he wasn't. However, that changed when Lucifer added the cream. A slow pour, rich and thick, melting perfectly into the pasta, coating each strand in a way that was nothing short of culinary perfection. The scent hit Stephen instantly.
Warm. Indulgent. Absolutely divine.
His stomach growled, loudly, and Stephen clenched his jaw, and Lucifer smirked.
"Oh, Doctor," he purred, clearly delighted, "you're ravenous, aren't you?"
Stephen scowled, his ears reddening slightly.
"It's a normal bodily function," he muttered stiffly. "It means nothing."
Lucifer chuckled as he plated the pasta, his movements graceful.
"Ah, but I think it does," he teased, setting the dish before Stephen. "You, my dear Doctor, are utterly enchanting."
Stephen snatched his fork before Lucifer could taunt him further.
"Shut up."
Lucifer's grin widened as he sat across from him, twirling his own fork into the creamy pasta. And then they ate, bickering the entire time.
"You're eating that too fast," Lucifer chided halfway through their meal, watching Stephen take large, eager bites.
"I'm hungry," Stephen shot back, refusing to slow down.
Lucifer laughed, golden eyes shining.
"And here I thought you were a man of refinement," he mused. "But look at you—completely at my mercy."
Stephen huffed, swallowing another bite. "Shut up and eat your damn pasta."
.
Stephen Strange was full, and against his better judgment, he was also comfortable. Which was dangerous. Comfort led to lowered defenses, and lowered defenses led to—
His head dipped forward, just for a moment. He caught himself, blinking, forcing his eyes open. The man, who had been watching him with thinly veiled amusement, stood gracefully from his seat and walked around the table.
"Ah," he murmured, tilting his head. "The mighty Doctor Strange, defeated by a simple meal."
Stephen grunted, rubbing a hand over his face, not quite awake enough to snap back. The man chuckled, placing a light hand on his shoulder, steering him up from his chair.
"Come along, darling," he said smoothly. "I have a perfectly good extra bedroom, and you—" he gestured to Stephen's drooping posture—"are clearly too tired to argue."
Stephen mumbled something unintelligible—likely a protest, but it was half-hearted at best.
He barely saw the man's smirk as he led him toward the guest bedroom, snapping his fingers once—And like magic, a fresh set of pajamas and a neatly arranged set of toiletries appeared inside.
Stephen, barely processing, ran a slow hand over his face.
"...I'm too tired for this."
The madman grinned.
"And you, Doctor, are about two minutes from collapsing."
Stephen grumbled but didn't resist as the man motioned toward the bed. He sat down, rubbing his face again, then blinked blearily.
"...I'm not staying. I should not sleep here."
The madman's smile was wicked, with a soft countenance that could be called fond.
"Oh, of course not," he said lightly. "You're merely… resting your eyes."
Stephen let out a deep, exhausted sigh, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "Asshole."
He chuckled, stepping back.
"Sleep well, Doctor."
And with that, he went to the bathroom next to the bedroom and changed his clothes into the pajamas set on top of the bed for him. Before he knew what was happening, Stephen Strange slept.
.
Stephen woke to the sharp slam of a door shutting.
His instincts flared immediately—his mind snapping from deep sleep to high alert before he even knew why.
Disoriented, he pushed himself up slightly, blinking blearily into the dim room.
Where the hell—?
He wasn't in his apartment.
Shit.
His heart kicked up for a brief moment before memory slammed back into him—The dinner with the obnoxious bastard who cooked for him. The car ride.
The kidnapping.
Right.
He groaned softly, rubbing a hand over his face.
Outside the bedroom, muffled voices filtered through the door—A woman's laugh, sharp and amused.
Stephen stilled, his focus sharpening.
"Lower your voice, Maze," came a smooth, amused baritone. "We have a guest sleeping, and I'd rather not be responsible for him turning into a grumpier version of himself."
Stephen narrowed his eyes.
That voice was from the man who kidnapped him.
Not that Stephen even knew his damn name, considering the bastard never introduced himself.
"Guest?" the woman—Maze—repeated, interest clear in her tone. "Since when do we have guests, Lucy?"
There was a pause, then her tone turned teasing.
"Ohhh. Is it the little lawyer to be?"
"Matt?" the man echoed, snorting lightly. "No, darling, our dear Matt has been doing his chores like a good boy. No surprise visits tonight from him."
Stephen frowned.
Lawyer? Chores?
What the hell kind of household dynamic was this?
Maze let out a dramatic sigh. "Damn. I was hoping for some entertainment, Luci."
A chuckle. "You're in luck, then. You'll love this one."
Stephen pinched the bridge of his nose.
Fantastic.
Not only was he kidnapped into a penthouse, but apparently he was now part of some inside joke. Stephen stayed very still, keeping his breathing even as he could continue listening.
He had no idea who the hell this Luci was—aside from being an obnoxious, smug, infuriating bastard—but Stephen had long since learned that information was power.
And right now?
He was powerless.
A guest—a kidnapped one, technically—in a stranger's penthouse, overhearing a conversation that might give him some insight into the man who had brought him here.
So he stayed quiet.
And listened.
From beyond the closed bedroom door, the sounds of cooking filled the space—quiet movement, the clinking of utensils against pans, the faint sizzle of something being heated.
"So," Luci's voice floated through the air, silky smooth but casual, "how was your chaotic little adventure?"
"Mm," Maze hummed, sounding pleased with herself. "New York's nightlife is definitely more chaotic than Los Angeles. I like it."
The man chuckled. "Of course you do."
"Stopped three muggings," Maze continued, sounding entirely too smug. "Made at least two men cry when they tried flirting with me. It was awesome."
The man let out a rich, indulgent laugh.
"Darling," he said smoothly, "I do love when you get your entertainment at the expense of others."
"Damn right," Maze said, voice dripping with satisfaction.
Stephen blinked.
Okay.
That was…concerning.
A woman who actively enjoyed terrifying men, and a man who encouraged it?
What the hell had he walked into?
There was a soft clatter of dishes, followed by the unmistakable scent of coffee filling the air.
And yet—Despite everything—This Luci man didn't sound dangerous.
Not in the way Stephen had heard true threats before. Not in the way his gut instinct usually picked up on.
If anything, he sounded…amused. Comfortable.
Like he was used to this dynamic, like Maze's antics were nothing more than an evening well spent.
Stephen exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
Alright.
Time to stop playing observer.
It was time to finally get some damn answers.
.
.
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