Foster stomped as furiously as he dared to reach the familiar ground of his apartment. The fire had been ruthless with his building, but his own apartment had been relatively spared by his protective warding. Though that wasn’t to say it had been untouched. His furniture was heavily damaged, and soot singed the walls. The carpet was a squishy, sodden mess.
The wards on his closets had mostly held, though the bookshelves were barely upright. He entered the kitchen and opened a charred cabinet, smiling faintly as he plucked out the fresh bag of coffee beans Cwall had tried to pilfer just days ago.
He tossed a handful in his mouth and crunched down, curious, only to gag and spit them into the sink. How the hell did the little demon just eatraw beanslike that? Disgusting. He brushed off the coffee pot as best he could, giving the hot plate a little zap of energy to account for the lack of power and setting a pot to brew as he walked down the hall to his room.
Foster looked into his mirror, cracked from the heat, and frowned at the shredded remnants of his clothing and the blood splatter that dominated his chest. A kernel of regret burned in his gut. This was his favorite shirt. Tugging off his ruined top and throwing it over the mirror, he dug into his closet for something clean to wear.
Redressed and refreshed, Foster made his way back to the living room. He dug his favorite mug out of the cabinet, poured himself a cup of freshly brewed coffee, and smiled when he saw his favorite chair was relatively unharmed. Settling in, he crossed one leg over his knee and took a sip from the mug, waiting.
The knock was both ridiculous and unnecessary. True to form, his father had no respect for his wishes, and Foster sensed him hovering out in the hallway for a good two minutes before he announced his arrival. He waved a hand lazily and the door swung inward with a creak. Lucifer swept inside, casting his gaze around the room as he crossed to stand in front of his son.
“Your manners are terrible.”
Foster looked up through his lashes. “Blame my upbringing.”
“Don’t insult your mother like that.”
He gripped his mug so hard the handle snapped off. “Don’t speak about my mother.”
“You’re not in a position to tell me what I can or cannot speak about, Foster.”
“Aren’t I?” He scoffed and drained his cup. “Who knows the limits of my new power?”
Luce leaned in and gripped the arms of the chair, eyes glinting with fury. “I can say with certainty that your limits are irrelevant. You have not surpassed me.”
Foster tried to lunge out of his seat but found he was unable to move. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
“You need tolisten, Foster!”
“It may be destroyed, but this ismyfucking house.” He strained against his gleaming white bonds, writhing with furious determination. “You come into my home and bind me to my own fucking chair and expect me tohear you out?!”
“In fact, I do!” Lucifer snapped, stalking forward and leaning into Foster’s face. “Because I love you enough to want to save your life, even as you’re happily throwing it away!”
“What the fuck does that even mean?”
Luce sneered. “I’ll gladly explain if yousettle down.”
“And you had to restrain me?”
“Would you listen if I hadn’t?”
“I won’t even listen now.” He scoffed and focused on harnessing his new power to direct it towards unravelling his binds. Trying to grasp the power was like trying to grab a live snake with soapy hands, but he concentrated on reaching deep and pulling it up.
“Of course you won’t,” Luce grumbled. Stubborn, arrogant—he was his father’s son after all. “But I’m going to speak because you need to hear it. You are aware, of course, that I was exiled from Heaven for treason.”
“Not surprising, given how unreliable you are.”
"Enough!" Lucifer shouted, his power cracking like a whip between them.
Foster bit back a retort as he tried to focus, and Luce tried a different tactic.
"Foster," he tried to speak as gently as he could, but frustration and the sense of urgency colored his tone with impatience. "Gabriel is a conniving, manipulative traitor. You have no idea the crimes he is guilty of, or the sins he has committed.”
Foster rolled his eyes. His father’s magicwasstronger than his, loathe as he was to admit it. But if he could distract him, then maybe the lapse of focus would be enough to even the odds.
“That's why you’re lucky to have me as a father,” Luce was saying as he paced the floor before the chair. If he rolled his eyes any harder, Foster might be at risk of permanent vision loss.
“Thisangelyou’re so fond of is a fraud, a charlatan. Aliar." Luce spat the word as if it was poison. “He framed me, Foster!”
