Lucifer smells like angel. All metallic, ozone and petrichor, liquid sugar and electric sting. It almost covers the sickly sweet smell of his vessel rotting from the inside out. Almost.

John braces himself on the desk in front of him. Arms taut and body ready for action. He is John Constantine and he will not shake in front of the Devil. He keeps his back to the fallen angel even though he felt him arrive in the little studio flat seconds ago. Keeps looking out the window, eyes trained on the demons in the street below. Four of the smoky twisted bastards. At least. Those are just the ones that Luci has on display. The ones he's letting him see.

Picked them out special. Knowing John could see their true forms. He can tell. They all match. Big horns. Old enough to have gone unreservedly demonic. Big spiral horns and skull faces. Young enough to have seen Alistair's ministrations though. He can tell that too. It's the way they wear their tattered rotten flesh like a badge of honour. Superimposed on the unblemished skin of their human hosts. Bone deep tattered lines of pain so fearsome they took it back and made it their own. Made it their new selves.

"I miss your dreams, John," the Devil says, at last. Sick of being ignored. Breath cold on the back of Constantine's bare neck. "It's been years, decades even. Why don't you come to visit me anymore?"

He closes his eyes when the Devil trails an icy hand up his naked arm. But he doesn't flinch. There's that. Bites his tongue before he answers. He really should get in the habit of getting dressed the moment he's out of the shower. You never know when a fallen angel might pop in for a visit after all. At least he has trousers on. Could have been worse.

"Been busy, luv. You know how it goes," John says. Tries for flippant. Still keeps his eyes out the window. Can't look at Luci. Not yet. Just a few more breaths.

They both know his 'visits' stopped because he grew up. Got control. Enough control to keep away from the Pit - in his dreams at least. Enough control to resist the pull of the Nergal blood in his veins and the hellfire in his soul. Got away from his dad. Stopped running to Satan when the world hurt. Stopped hiding and started fighting. He isn't that scared and scarred little boy anymore. And he refuses to start shaking.

But he also knows he never closed the door. Probably never will. All that hellfire has to come from somewhere. And Lucifer knows that too. Damned from birth. So what's the point?

"Didn't you miss me, Johnny?" the Devil whispers, frozen breath across his ear. And he does shiver then. Can't help it. The physical cold and the biting truth of it getting right into his bones. Yes. Yes he missed it. Missed him. Because he's John Constantine and he's just that fucked up.

"Not bloody likely, mate," he lies. Takes a deep breath but it doesn't help. Just fills his lungs with angelic influence. It scratches and cuts worse than cigar smoke – like drowning in crystal sands and sin.

Lucifer laughs. And John can hear it. Both the vessel and the archangel. One human and rough. One pure light and fear of God. He relents and turns around to face the Devil. Has enough control over himself now. He hopes. And he's sick of watching demons wander around Brixton like they belong there.

This close he can see Morningstar shine blue in the man's eyes. Taste the bitter edge of decay and the sweet spice of angel in the air. Feel the burning cold of Lucifer's grace on his skin. Make out every suppurating sore on the once human flesh. Falling apart quicker than even an archangel can heal it.

"You know you don't have to wear that with me," Constantine says. He waves vaguely at the rotten husk of a man the Devil is parading about in. He was handsome once. Now he's blistered and burning out. Sometimes heaven's light burns hotter than hell's fire. And this guy is full of both. He never had a chance.

But god, why did he say that? The real thing - without the shell around it - would be mighty. It would be beautiful. Wings and grace and glory. But damn who knows, it might look like Sam Winchester. It might just look like a less liquefied version of this man in front of him. It might look like him. Would it be worth the risk?

"Why? You don't like having mortal flesh between us, Johnny?" Lucifer purrs, and places a cold hand on John's belt and pulls him forward. Even closer. They're less than an inch apart now. And when their eyes meet Lucifer asks, "Is that an offer, John Constantine? Want me to slip into someone more comfortable? You're not a boy but you could still be King?"

On the outside the Hellblazer laughs at the Devil. Looks him in the eye and laughs. Just like the legends and lies they tell about him.

But inside John bites down hard on mortal fear. This isn't the fear of the dark that lives in every human soul. This is the fear of the light. And it's so much worse. The darkness can only devour you. Light can burn the flesh from your bones. Light can rip you open and bleed into your soul. The thing in the dark will eat your flesh. But the sun will consume you, body and soul, dissolve you into atoms. The light can show you what you really are then rip it from you.

There's a difference between death and destruction. And it is the latter that Lucifer offers – white light obliteration. Hot and cold annihilation. A pure and endless ending. And there is very little that John Constantine fears more than that.

"You know, I went to a parallel universe once," John says conversationally, "where no one bothered locking you up in a cage. I was still a sod but you were a lot nicer. Pretty too. Ran a wine bar in LA! Played the piano. Can you imagine?"

"I don't have to, John." And it's a warning. Don't forget just how powerful I am, Johnny. Don't forget whose burning anger fuels all that hellfire you like to throw around. Don't you dare forget me.

John swallows.

Lucifer's wings flare out in an indolently show of raging power. All six of them. Heaven's fallen glory. They fill the room. Blue-white and iridescent silver. Achingly, mind-bendingly beautiful. The walls start to ice over too. And isn't that the bloody kicker. That's going to melt isn't it. This place is damp enough without Satan coming along and adding to the mould problem.

"So, you just came here 'cause you miss me? Or did you have a reason? I don't need piano lessons."

"Oh, there's a lesson to be learned. Take the word of a fallen angel." Lucifer says. Almost sings it. He's smirking.

Actually that's familiar. It is a song isn't it? John knows it from somewhere. He frowns. It reminds him of something… It's a Nazareth quote. Murky heat and sweat slick leather. Nazareth. Dean Winchester… that can't be a coincidence. The Devil deals in temptation, damnation, and depravity – but not coincidences.

John looks back up sharply. And Satan smiles.

Knows he got it. Knows everything it implies. About him. About them. How he can't hide. How he never really got away. Never could shut that damn door in his soul.

"You could save the kid, John," Lucifer says. "The big sad one? The little brother." He runs a freezing blistered finger across John's cheek. Leaves a trail of ice on his skin. "Say yes. Take his place. Isn't that what you like to do? Isn't that your thing? Trying to make up for what you are. What you'll always be. Martyred on your own self-destruction? I'm the ultimate self-destruction, Johnny."

John shakes his head. No. Digs his hand into the desk behind him. Grounds himself in the pain as it cuts into his palm.

"You can have conditions. I could spare them. Every pretty girl and boy you secretly care about. There aren't that many, after all. Gemma... and your sister maybe? Chas Chandler. The Winchesters. Epiphany and Ann-marie. Gary. Anyone else that takes your fancy. That disgusting walking tree? We'll rule the world your way, Johnny boy. Fiddles of gold all 'round. Piano bars? I'd give you the world, as an aside, but that's not what you want. I've seen you without your skin on John. I know what you want. What you really want. And I can give it to you. For one little loan. You've lent yourself out for less..."

He would take a step back but there's no further back to go. Constantine spat in Azazel's face once. And kicked Hastur in the bollocks. Stole the Nergal's smokes. But this isn't any Duke of Hell. Not any old fallen angel. This is Lucifer. God's second and most brilliant creation. There's only so far a bloke can get with a bit of judicious treachery and an arse load of sarcasm, confidence, and spite. With the 'seal of perfection' that particular hand will probably just get you minced into your component atoms. John knows when he's outclassed. But he also hates being backed into a corner. Especially literally. So he does the only thing he can think of.

He kisses the Devil. He's the Hellblazer, right? It was probably inevitable. Counter-culture come to life. God's a capricious and voyeuristic fucker like that.

Lucifer tastes like grace and torment. Sickly sweet and blissfully bitter. Dead flesh held together with nothing but the will of an archangel and energy bled from tarnished souls. Tastes like eternal punishment, and blood fury, and cold comfort. And he kisses like a penance. Constantine pushes in, pushes his advantage. And in the confusion the archangel gives ground. Steps back following the kiss.

Shit. He lets Constantine guide them. Pushing them both backward until Lucifer's back hits the wall. The wings go through it. John thinks his blood is going to freeze and his skin is already hot, almost burning.

"Luci?" John mutters into the dead skin of the vessel's neck. Lucifer looks at him like he's never seen him before. And for a moment John can see the potential for that pretty piano player somewhere deep in there. The part of the Devil that want's to be wanted. The part with the daddy issues and the tailored suits. But Luci still thinks he's won now. John can see that in those bright blue eyes too. In the grace the swirls there. Lucifer thinks this is what comes before the 'yes.'

"Yes, Johnny?" the Devil answers, smug and ophiomorphous. He always was a sanctimonious twit.

"Piss off!" John says.

He moves fast. Knows the advantage won't last long. Shouldn't have said anything but seems he's a sanctimonious twit too. He slams his hand into the hidden sigil on the wall behind them. Sliced open on the desk's edge the blood seeps through the thin wallpaper to meet its counterpart below. Binds the spell. He feels the magic click into place. Closes his eyes when the archangel is blown back to Hell in a visceral flash of blinding glory, vessel and all. It won't last long. But it'll have to be long enough.

Fuck. That was close. Too close. Time for a new tattoo. And a new flat too probably.

He is so sick of the sodding devil and the sodding apocalypse. He considers calling the Winchesters and yelling at them. He decides to just get drunk instead. It'll be more effective. At least he can pretend the whisky is listening to him.

Notes:

The piano bar is called Lux and is a reference to and Lucifer Morningstar from Vertigo continuity. In Hellblazer Satan, or the King of Hell, is a demon called The First (who I may merge with Lilith for this 'verse) because the fallen angel Lucifer gave up Hell during Sandman and later his own eponymous series. Anyway, the point is the parallel universe was the Vertigo 'Verse.

This is part of a series, starting with Of Hunters and Hellblazers.
This one is told from John Constantine's POV - so it's a lot more wordy and descriptive. I've also allowed my British spelling and affectations to reign. Hope it works.