"I want my Terry to stop hurting," Arlene said, a new desperation in her voice.

"The man who cooked my meal?" Lucifer asked, curious.

Arlene nodded, the glassy look from being hypnotized slowly disappearing from her eyes as a great pain replaced it. "See, he came back from the war in Iraq with something not quite right in his head. You know?"

Eric's legs shifted under the table, a foot knocking against one of Lucifer's. "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder," he supplied. "A parting gift from the Marine Corps, I do believe."

Arlene visibly sagged in front of them. "Yes," she agreed with Eric. "Except, it's gotten worse lately." She looked around, eyes focusing on one of the booths closest to the door before leaning in. "Ever since his war buddy showed up. I wish Patrick Devins would pack up and move on so Terry can get back to being the great daddy I know he is."

"A friend has come to visit?" Lucifer inquired. "Perhaps I could help convince him to move on . . ." he trailed off and gave Arlene a convivial look. "Perhaps a favour for a favour?"

"You would?" Arlene asked, her voice going breathy as she suddenly found herself needing to sink down and sit on the edge of the booth's bench. "I could never thank you enough." She sat across from Lucifer, seemingly forgetting her fear of vampires to sit next to Eric. She looked down at her hands clasped before her and finally she nodded, looking up with a new conviction in her eyes. "I'll give you anything you want if you could get Patrick out of Terry's life and I could have my happy husband back. Anything."

"Certainly," Lucifer smiled, feeling a rush at having secured yet another favour. Truly, it never got old, this making deals with humans. "What I would like in return is for you to welcome both myself and Mr. Northman into Sookie Stackhouse's home. We're looking for her and we hope there might be evidence to shed some light on her disappearance there."

Arlene looked surprised, and for just a tiny moment, a bit disappointed. "Is that all?" she asked. Her eyes shifted, left then right, before settling back on Lucifer. "I thought that maybe . . ."

Lucifer smiled. "I'm touched," Lucifer said. "But it's very apparent you love your husband. I wouldn't want to risk that for you." Even if he was somewhat curious about what it would be like with a tired housewife from backwoods Louisiana, this one most obviously wasn't neglected. The fact that she was willing to cheat on the man meant nothing—Lucifer could see the love for this Terry Bellefleur in her eyes, even if she was curious what it would be like bagging the devil.

Lucifer stood from the booth and reached a hand out. Arlene took it and he nearly lifted her from the booth. "Put me in the right direction and I'll deal with this Patrick Devins. And if possible, I'd love to have a chat with Terry before we go to the Stackhouse residence. At the very least, thank him for the lovely meal."

Arlene smiled up at Lucifer, a bit of desperation in her eyes still. "Thank you so, so much, Mr. Morningstar."

"Please, call me Lucifer," his reply was dripping sweet. He stood straight, tugged on his suit jacket, and looked about. "Where am I going?"

Arlene pointed the man out, sitting by himself in the booth closest to the door. He looked like an ex-marine, at least from Lucifer's albeit limited knowledge of the American armed forces. Wearing a polo shirt with the collar freshly pressed, his hair in a perfect buzz cut, and a line of empty glasses in front of him, a fresh beer in his hand . . . while he read a book.

Well . . .

This should be easy enough.

Lucifer strode out, leaving Eric and Arlene behind. It was just a few steps from one end of the dining room to the other, but Devins never looked up as Lucifer approached, his attention riveted to the book in front of him. In fact, he kept reading as Lucifer slid into the booth across from him.

Lucifer leaned closer to the table, curious to see what it was that had the ex-marine so engrossed. Legends of the Fire Spirits: Jinn and Genies from Arabia to Zanzibar. Talk about heavy reading, certainly a book that did not belong in a place like Merlotte's.

Devins' finally looked up, annoyance on his face. "Can I help you?" he asked, dragging the book close to him and slamming it shut. But not before Lucifer had read a few words—the man was reading up on ifrits. A form of djinn, or more correctly, a kind of demon. And while Lucifer's world was shifting to include werewolves and shapeshifters, demons—now that was something he already knew about.

Lucifer reached a single finger out, letting it hit the cover of the heavy hardcover, tapping a few times. "I'm a bit of an expert on ifrit, if that's what you're studying. Any particular reason you're interested?"

Patrick Devins leaned back in the booth, pulling the book with him and setting it on the bench next to him and out of Lucifer's reach. "None of this is your business," the ex-marine said. "I don't even fucking know you."

"Well, that can be solved right quick, can't it?" Lucifer asked, smiling wide. He extended his hand across the table, and the soldier just couldn't stop himself from shaking. It seemed everyone in Merlotte's knew their manners. "I'm Lucifer Morningstar, the devil at your service."

The eye-roll that accompanied the firm handshake was at odds but expected. Not everyone was Lafayette Reynolds and took Lucifer at his word, after all. "Devins," the man replied. "Why would the devil be hanging around Bon Temps?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Lucifer countered. "It's just as likely as a soldier sitting all by himself in a bar reading a book on demons and fire spirits." Lucifer leaned back and smiled. "Which is something I know plenty about, Devins."

"Do you now?" Devins asked, clearly not believing.

"Of course," Lucifer said smoothly. "As I said, bit of an expert on demons here. All of them. My question, though, is why are you studying up on them?"

"Again, I don't think this is any of your business," Devins said, glaring at Lucifer.

It was going to be like that then.

Lucifer leaned forward, elbows hitting the table. "Then perhaps you would care to tell me why you are here, harassing Terry Bellefleur and terrifying his wife?"

Devins narrowed his eyes at Lucifer. "How do you know any of this? How do you know I'm a soldier?"

Lucifer smiled. "I keep telling you I'm the devil . . ."

"No, I think Arlene told you, didn't she? That woman means well but she really needs to keep her nose out of her husband's affairs." Devins grabbed his beer and took a swig, but he looked nervous to Lucifer. Something was going on between Devins and this Terry, and an ifrit was definitely part of the problem.

"Tell me, Devins," Lucifer asked, as he began to line up the empty glasses in a perfect row, unable to stop himself from touching things. "Did you do something unprofessional while you were in Iraq? Is there a reason why an ifrit would be following you on this side of the world?"

Alarm blossomed on Devins' face as the man seemed to realize Lucifer really did know about ifrits. "We were just doing our job," Devins said, but when his gaze slid to the left toward the dark window, Lucifer knew he was lying.

"If you were just doing your job, why does a demon think you need punishment?" Lucifer queried, knowing he'd hit a nerve.

"I don't know!" Devins said, but the man was lying, no doubt about it.

"And if I were to go to the kitchen and ask Terry? Would he say the same thing?"

Devins scoffed. "Terry never had the heart for what we did. He's been nothing but a guilty wreck since I got here."

Lucifer raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything.

His lack of response seemed to upset Devins, because the man began to justify himself almost immediately. "Look, things were different back then. Even the shadows were out to get us, man. Besides, we were given a task and we handled it. Completely."

Lucifer leaned back, hands splayed across the table, continuing to say nothing. The more he sat there pretending to judge Devins, the more nervous the man became. It was easy, like taking candy from a baby.

Was this why Linda would sometimes just sit there and stare at him? Did this sort of thing work on him as well? Perhaps . . .

"They all had to die, okay?" Devins said. "We were told to. And they'd seen too much."

"Civilians?" Lucifer guessed and Devins grimaced. "More than that? Women? Children?"

Devins sighed. "Yes. And one of them cursed us. It's not our fault; we were just following orders. But we were cursed, all the same. And now an ifrit stalks my unit—and there's only me and Terry left." A savage look crossed his face. "And the damn ifrit won't stop until only one of us is left."

"And are you here to determine how to avoid certain death?" Lucifer asked, leaning forward. "For both you and Terry Bellefleur?"

Lucifer saw the fear in the soldier's eyes and knew immediately this man hid behind others. Cowardice. He wasn't here to save the both of them; he was here to drop the ifrit off at Terry's doorstep and run the other way.

Lucifer had no doubt the ifrit would not relent until only one of these men remained. The question, Lucifer decided, was whether either one deserved to be punished. And was that punishment death . . . or something else?

First though, he needed to be sure about something.

Without saying a word, he stood from the booth and strode across the restaurant, heading for the bar and the door beyond that would lead to the kitchen. "Hey!" Devins called after him, but Lucifer ignored him. He'd already gotten to know the man . . . what he wanted to do now was also learn about this Terry Bellefleur who made perfect hushpuppies and had a wife willing to sleep with the devil if it would mean he'd be a happier man.

No one stopped him from going behind the bar. Even Sam only stood there and watched, curious. But then, Sam had invited Lucifer into his bar and into his life in order to find Sookie Stackhouse. If he hadn't wanted Lucifer poking his nose into places he didn't belong, he never should have invited him. Lucifer barely even glanced at the bar owner as he pushed through the swinging doors and into the sweltering heat of the kitchen. Sam did not follow—a wise man.

It was Lafayette who looked up from his spot cooking what looked like burgers. "Oh hell no, bitch," Lafayette said, brandishing his spatula like a shield. "Get out my kitchen." There was a mix of fear and anger within the colourful young man and Lucifer couldn't help but be compelled by it.

He was clearly terrified, but not enough that he'd lost his attitude and Lucifer loved that about this man. He could do with a bit less of the fear, but the language? The haughty looks? Oh yes, these were delightful pieces of Lafayette. They made him one of a kind.

Lucifer did not expect the soft voice that reprimanded Lafayette though.

"It's fine, Lala," said a man with blonde hair trapped beneath a hairnet and a trim beard. He honestly looked like he could be Sam Merlotte's older brother—same hairstyle, similar beard. Eyes the same colour of blue jeans. Hell, same clothes, even. But he was bigger, thicker, and his accent more pronounced. And there was a softness there, in those sad eyes, as he tried to calm Lafayette down.

This, Lucifer knew without a doubt, was Terry Bellefleur.

Despite the soothing tone and the comforting hand that Terry laid upon Lafayette's shoulder, Lafayette was clearly having none of it. "You don't get it, Terry. That man is the devil hisself, and he needs to get his fine white ass out of here before I lose my shit."

"Everyone has their demons, Lala," Terry said, his dark blue eyes unfocused as he seemed to think of his own. "All of us."

Lucifer, of course, had heard the compliment in the fear though, and was suddenly preening, hands smoothing over his suit as he almost seemed to pose for the men. "My ass is fine, is it? Why thank you, Lafayette." He couldn't hide the smile even if he wanted to.

Lafayette threw his hands up in disgust, drops of grease flying from the spatula held in his grip so that Lucifer took a few quick steps back. The last thing he wanted to do was get grease on his suit—it would be impossible to get out. Perhaps coming into the kitchen hadn't been the wisest decision he'd ever made.

Lucifer, with his back pressed against the swinging door, frowned at Lafayette. "As it is, I'm not here to see you, my medium friend. I'm here to meet the soldier."

"Me?" Terry asked, pulling himself back from whatever memories he was currently reliving. "Why me?"

"Well, aside from wanting to ask you how you made such fine hushpuppies, I was wondering if I could speak to you about a certain demon that seems to be plaguing you."

"It's called PTSD and it's not a demon, it's a disease," Lafayette snapped.

"That's not what he's talking about," Terry replied, that pained gaze fixed on Lucifer. "You been talking to Devins?"

"Absolutely, I have," Lucifer confirmed. "I know why he's here. But what I don't know is your side of the story. I'd have it, if you would share."

Terry stood there, fists opening and closing, as he studied Lucifer. A few moments passed this way before he looked at Lafayette and then nodded to himself. He was suddenly removing his apron and hairnet, heading toward Lucifer and the door. "Man the fort, Lala," he said as he grabbed Lucifer by the arm and dragged him out.

Rather than going back into the dining room, Terry led Lucifer down a hall and outside. The move hadn't gone unnoticed and before Terry could light a shaking cigarette and gather his thoughts, Eric was standing next to Lucifer, a cool presence in the night. "What did Patrick tell you?" he finally asked after taking a long drag on the cigarette.

This wasn't exactly the best place to have a conversation, standing in the dark Louisiana night next to a dumpster. But it held more privacy than anything inside. And it seemed Terry needed the shadows to speak of that which haunted him. Lucifer could understand that—there were things he himself did not like to think of during the light of day.

"Devins is doing research on ifrits," Lucifer said. "Demons."

Terry's eyes were dark as they shifted in the shadows. "He told you that?"

"More or less," Lucifer said. "With some convincing on my part. What I do wonder though is your take on why a demon forged in the fires of hell is trailing you and your troop?"

"Why do you want to know?" Terry asked.

"Well, as your friend Lala has suggested, you truly are speaking with the devil," Lucifer said. "I've an idea who might be stalking you, but I would love to know your take on what happened the night you were cursed with an ifrit's attention."

Terry studied Lucifer for a few moments, then looked to Eric who simply nodded. "The devil," he mused. "I bet people peg you as evil all the time, don't they?"

Lucifer inclined his head. "If they believe me."

Terry chuckled. "They never believe you when you tell them the truth, do they?" Lucifer got the impression he was speaking of his own experiences.

"Don't I know it," Lucifer breathed, impressed with this man already. He hadn't even blinked an eye at Lucifer admitting he was the devil. He just seemed to accept it. Without the damn terror.

"I always did think the devil gets a bad rap," Terry mused in the dark. A pause as he took another drag on the cigarette. "Your job is to punish those who have been bad."

Lucifer grinned, "Yes, precisely. You understand."

"Is that why you're here?" Terry asked. "To punish us? I know the ifrit wants one of us dead, but . . . I didn't think we warranted special attention from the big boss man."

"Oh, well. No, I'm not here to punish you," Lucifer said. "I'm here on another errand. Still, I would know what transpired the night the ifrit was set upon your heels."

Terry sighed and leaned against the dumpster. "I suppose I deserve it, either way. The punishment. The death."

"How do you figure?" Lucifer asked, doing his own leaning—into Eric's personal space. The vampire had followed them to ensure Lucifer's safety, but Lucifer didn't mind his presence. It made him feel loved.

"We never should have killed them," Terry said as the cigarette fell to the ground, where it glowed for a second before being tamped out with a bootheel.

"Killed who?" Lucifer encouraged, wanting to know the story.

"Women and children. People who had nothing to do with the war, except for the fact they were born on the wrong side of it." Terry sighed and was suddenly reaching for another cigarette. "I hadn't wanted to, but an order was an order. I knew we were doing the wrong thing. But I did it anyway."

"Following orders?" Lucifer questioned, which got a quick and vehement nod in return.

"They say jump, I'd say how high. I was a good soldier—I did what I was told and never asked questions. Even though I probably should have. Even though it eats away at me now." The glow of the cigarette as he pulled on it lit his eyes in the dark, and even through the shadows Lucifer could see a pain there that spanned years, not days or months.

Terry's shoulders slumped and the cigarette pulled away just long enough for a single, solitary sob to escape the man. "I deserve to die," Terry whispered. "I deserve to go to hell. So let the ifrit come; let it take me instead of Patrick."

Eric gave a grunt of surprise at the selfless tortured words coming from the fry cook. It seemed he hadn't expected such an admission. Which was just silly—hadn't Eric just spent weeks of his life worrying himself over what would happen to his soul when he died? Why shouldn't a human have such mortal thoughts?

From Lucifer's perspective though . . . it seemed Terry's own guilt and PTSD had done a good job of punishing him for the atrocious acts he was admitting to. A quick talk to a cranky demon could get Lucifer his favour from Arlene. Perhaps see if the ifrit would be willing to let this one curse slide . . . just this once.

Wouldn't be much of a hardship, really. Except perhaps finding the demon in question. But if he was following Patrick Devins, it shouldn't be too hard.

And yet—Lucifer paused.

He'd promised Arlene to get rid of Patrick Devins because she had thought that would do her husband some good. It was clear though that it was more than Devins and the ifrit that was slowly eating away at Terry's soul. The man was harbouring guilt from his time in the Marines, and Lucifer didn't think removing Devins and the demon from Terry's life would really help him. And damned if he didn't want Arlene and Terry Bellefleur to be happy, just as he'd promised her.

But he didn't know how he could achieve that, barring the idea of dragging Linda all the way out here to help the man work through his problems. Lucifer felt . . . useless, suddenly. He'd promised Arlene to help make her husband happy, and while he'd happily argue with an ifrit and scare an ex-Marine into leaving town, he didn't know how to fix the bigger problem. It wasn't as simple as having a conversation or waving around money. It dove deep into the man's psyche, a place Lucifer couldn't go, unless his goal was to terrify.

He couldn't decide why but his failure hurt him. Here was a man that truly regretted his past mistakes, and Lucifer, the king of punishment, couldn't just take that pain away from him! A failure, indeed. He'd keep the bare minimum of his promise to Terry's wife, but this man would never truly be happy again. And it seemed tragic to Lucifer. So bloody pointless. For some reason he couldn't understand, he blamed his father.

Eric sighed from next to him, moving his cool presence away from the vampire with a single glance back. Lucifer saw a lot in that short gaze—love, understanding, a bit of impatience, determination, and even a little amusement. Eric Northman, Viking vampire, was going to do something because he could feel Lucifer's emotions. An act of kindness, not for Terry Bellefleur, but for Lucifer Morningstar.

Eric moved close to Terry who, for what it was worth, just looked up at him, no fear in his eyes. For what was there to fear from a vampire when the past hurt him more than anything in the physical world ever could? He was a man who seemed to accept that death loomed over him; defeated into thinking an eternity of damnation awaited him.

Eric's hands came up to cradle Terry's jaw. Terry's second cigarette fell to the ground forgotten as the veteran felt compelled to look into the vampire's eyes. Eric's long fingers seemed to stroke against the tidy beard as he looked long into the human's soul. "Terry Bellefeur," he said the name, his voice hypnotic even to Lucifer.

Terry stood there, seeming to stand solely because Eric was holding him up with careful hands. "Vampire Eric," Terry replied, his voice lost in an awe that Lucifer had seen a time or two in the past month. Eric, his Viking lover, was glamouring the man Lucifer wanted to help.

"You've carried the weight of your sins for a long time," Eric said, the words soothing and quiet.

Terry tried to nod, however firm but delicate fingers held him in place. "I have," he finally agree verbally, his body clearly not doing what he feebly asked it to do.

Lucifer couldn't help himself; he found that he was leaning forward toward the vampire, toward the seductive magic he was forcing upon Terry. Lucifer could feel the pull, and even though he knew he could deny it, he wanted to feel this part of Eric's vampire nature. When a vampire glamoured a human time hung still, thoughts ceased, and nothing existed but the beautiful eyes and the intoxicating sound of the vampire's voice.

Lucifer would spend eternity in that kind of magic if he could, especially if it were coming from Eric.

"It seems the devil absolves you of your sins," Eric told Terry. "Do you understand?"

Terry simply blinked in response.

"It means you've been punished enough."

Terry's lips drew into a tight frown and tears sprang to the man's eyes. "I have?" he whispered, and there was doubt there in his voice.

Eric nodded, leaning closer to Terry, making sure they never broke eye contact. "You have been repentant long enough; your ghosts have overstayed their welcome. You can let them go, Terry. Set your sins free. Live. Stop reliving your mistakes—they can never be undone."

"I can do that?" Terry asked quietly.

Eric nodded and gave the man an encouraging smile. "I command it," he said, authority laced within the dark magic of his voice.

Terry took a deep breath, chest puffing out . . . and then released it in a relieved sigh. "Thank you," he whispered, and then he began to cry. Great big sobs, not of heartache, but of relief.

Eric let go of the man's chin but Terry nearly flung himself at the vampire, pulling him into a desperate bear hug. Eric stood there rigidly, a scowl on his face. "This isn't normally how this goes," he ground out.

"Hug the man back, Viking. You've given him a miracle."

Eric continued to scowl, but his arms stiltedly went around the other man's back to pat him three times in quick succession. The best he'd do for a human he had no emotional ties with. It took Terry a few moments, face hidden within Eric's shirt, to gather himself. But when he finally pulled back, he was smiling ear to ear.

He seemed to shake himself, then looked between Eric and Lucifer. "I don't know what's going on, but I can't express how happy I am to know you both," he said. He nodded to Eric. "Vampire Eric," he said. A gracious look to Lucifer. "The devil himself." He rocked back and toward the door into Merlotte's. "I'm sure it's been a pleasure talking with you, but I best be getting back to work."

And with that, Terry Bellefleur opened the door and headed back inside, a new jaunt to his step.

Lucifer turned to Eric in the dark. "Did you just take away all of his trauma?" he asked.

"Isn't that what you wanted?" Eric asked. "I could feel your frustration. It was a simple thing I could give him."

Lucifer nearly felt like crying himself. "A simple thing," he replied back, unable to process how Eric didn't seem to know just how much he'd helped the man. "Gives a man back his life and thinks it's just a simple thing."

He grabbed Eric by the arm, pulled him close. He kissed the vampire, willing the other man to feel the passion that was rising in him. He loved this cold creature more than anything.

But sadly, he simply did not have time to show it to him. He pulled back, frowning as he looked into the shadows beyond the bar. It was time to find an ifrit. And he didn't think it would be hard to do so.

"Go back inside, Viking. I'll be along shortly."

Eric gave him a look of concern. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"If you don't mind," Lucifer said. "I need to speak to a colleague, and I don't think they'll show unless I'm on my own."

Eric looked at Lucifer—no, there it was . . . gazing—and then he leaned forward to steal a final quick kiss before disappearing inside.

Right, then.

Time to call out a demon.

Terry Bellefleur was always one of my favourite characters in True Blood, and I do believe Alan Ball did him dirty.

Much like turning Betty White into a vampire to live forever, in my world, Terry Bellefleur does not have to let his guilt, depression, and PTSD eat away at him to the point of no return. I do not let a vampire erase his memories too late and make it a meaningless fucking gesture.

I give Terry the happiness he deserves, and I do it early enough that it will make a difference.

In my world, my North Star universe, I fix a grievous error. And I knew going in, as I plotted out the outline, that there were a few things I needed to do that have absolutely nothing to do with saving Sookie Stackhouse from the bullshit that is her life.

Saving Terry is one of them.

I just think it's a brilliant coincidence that I can perfectly tie together Eric's universe and Lucifer's with an ifrit. A demon in Bon Temps. How useful is that?

I would like to point out that I did look at the TB timeline to see if this would work, and it absolutely does. Seasons 4/5/6 all happen within weeks of each other, so Patrick Devins hanging around Merlotte's totally could have happened a month after what transpired in The Devil Knows You're Dead.