Lucifer hadn't even realized he'd been sulking until he heard a calm voice behind him.
"Moses went out to get wood. He's making you a bed for the side room. You don't have to sleep in the trees anymore."
He looked up sharply. Yahweh was sitting at the table, watching him quietly—probably had been for a while. Embarrassed, Lucifer's cheeks flushed. Great. He'd been seen brooding like some moody bird.
He tried to act casual, grabbed the pot of hot goat's milk from the fire, and set it down on the table with more force than necessary.
"Your milk," he said stiffly.
"Thank you." Yahweh's reply was soft.
Then Yahweh put away the scroll he'd been reading and brought out a woven basket from the side room. Curious, Lucifer leaned over to peek.
The basket was full of odd items—leather cords, carving knives, small blocks of wood, and rough metal bells. He had no idea what it was all for, but he watched Yahweh sort through it with quiet intensity.
Lucifer stared long enough that Yahweh finally looked up, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. "Seen enough?"
Lucifer straightened quickly, clearing his throat. "Tch. Stingy. Can't even look."
Yahweh chuckled, and the soft jingle of metal filled the room as he started laying things out. Lucifer's curiosity got the better of him. He leaned closer again—just a little—trying not to look too obvious about it.
He saw those white, graceful fingers sift through the basket and pick up a small wooden block.
Then Yahweh grabbed a carving knife.
Lucifer watched as he began to carve, the tool awkward in his elegant hands. He had to strain his fingers to scrape even the smallest shavings from the wood. It looked like he was trying to make something small—maybe a charm or medallion?
Lucifer rolled his eyes. "Clumsy," he muttered under his breath.
Time passed slowly. The fire crackled. The soft sound of carving—scratch, scrape, scratch—filled the air.
Lucifer rested his chin in his hand, eyes still fixed on Yahweh's work. The man would press the wood down with two fingers, carving carefully along the grain. Every time the blade passed close to his fingertips, Lucifer tensed.
Don't slice yourself, idiot.
Yet Yahweh moved with calm precision, even if it wasn't graceful.
By midday, one of the wooden blocks had been shaped into a tiny round token, about the size of a button. Lucifer yawned, half-dozing at the table, head drooping slightly.
Then Yahweh looked up.
"Tired?" he asked.
But at the same moment, Lucifer saw something—the knife had slipped.
"Watch out!" he warned.
Too late.
Yahweh flinched. A thin cut traced across the side of his finger.
He stared at it, dazed, like he hadn't quite registered what had happened.
Lucifer stood up, irritated. "I told you! Idiot."
Yahweh finally looked down at his finger. The skin was already turning red, blood welling up from a shallow cut. The wood shavings stuck to the broken skin. His pale hands looked even more delicate now.
Lucifer stared, annoyed at how fragile the man looked. He wasn't used to seeing Yahweh like this—soft, human, injured.
"Clumsy hands, soft skin… You're like some pampered noble," Lucifer muttered.
Then he grabbed Yahweh's hand, none too gently.
"Let me fix it."
His tone was gruff, but he brought the finger to his lips and blew on it—too fast, too hard. Yahweh blinked in surprise.
Lucifer pulled back a little to inspect the damage, only to catch those clear eyes watching him again, long lashes blinking slowly. The way Yahweh looked at him—patient, amused, unshaken—made Lucifer's stomach twist.
"It's not healed yet," Lucifer grumbled, holding the hand tighter. "You think blowing on it makes it vanish? I'm not an angel anymore. It's not like I've got divine spit."
He tilted Yahweh's hand, scanning the cut, then began plucking out the tiny splinters with surprisingly careful fingers.
They were close. Too close.
Their knees almost touched. A stray breeze blew through the open window, tugging at their hair. Yahweh shifted back a little, creating space.
Lucifer pretended not to notice.
Then, shamelessly, he leaned in again and sniffed.
"…Why do you still smell like Moses?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.
Yahweh looked up, unimpressed. "Unlike you, I don't reek of smoke just from lighting a fire."
Lucifer glared.
That was gratitude for you. He was helping! And yet here Yahweh was, tossing snide remarks like candy.
He gave the injured finger a firm, vengeful squeeze.
"Ow," Yahweh hissed.
Lucifer grinned, smug and wicked. He tilted his chin high, feathers practically puffing up with pride. If he had a tail, it'd be wagging.
Just then, the door creaked open.
Lucifer quickly let go of Yahweh's hand and stepped back.
"Ahem. You should put some ointment on that," he said coolly.
Voices poured in.
Dozens of tiny fae fluttered in through the air, wings shimmering as they carried beams of wood into the courtyard with magic. Their chatter was endless.
"Does this plank go here?"
"Oooh, the spiritual energy here is amazing!"
"Do you think if I sleep near this house I'll wake up prettier?"
Lucifer winced at the noise. His temple throbbed. He was two seconds away from flipping the table when, finally, the fae finished their work, bowed midair, and zoomed away with a cheerful chorus of "Thanks for having us!"
Peace returned—sort of.
Moses entered next, hauling in a massive wooden tub.
Yahweh held up his red, swollen finger and looked at him flatly. "Moses. Do you have any medicine?"
Moses blinked. "For what? Did the ferret get hurt? Or the goats?"
"No," Yahweh said. He held up his hand higher. "Me."
"…You?"
Moses squinted at the finger, baffled. "You want medicine for that?"
Yahweh didn't blink. Just pushed the finger closer to Moses's face.
"Medicine," he repeated.
Moses sighed internally. It's not like that cut wasn't going to heal in five minutes anyway.
Still, he played along. If Yahweh wanted to act mortal, then fine.
He gently took the offered hand and examined it. "How'd this happen?"
"Carving," Yahweh answered. His voice had a faint edge of a whine to it, maybe from the pain, maybe just the memory of being pinched. Lucifer, watching, narrowed his eyes.
That tone… It sounded suspiciously like pouting.
Moses retrieved a cloth and a small jar of ointment. He wiped Yahweh's hand clean, then dabbed the cream on carefully. His movements were gentle, practiced—he only touched the injured fingers, respectful and precise.
To anyone else, it looked perfectly ordinary.
But to Lucifer, it was… annoying.
Too smooth. Too professional.
He looked at his own hands—rougher, careless. He'd squeezed, pinched, teased.
Yahweh hadn't said a word, but Lucifer suddenly felt like he'd kicked a kitten. And then watched someone else gently cradle it and tuck it into a silk blanket.
Frustration built in his chest. Without warning, his black wings unfurled with a loud snap. Wind burst through the yard, scattering leaves and dust into the air.
Moses looked up just in time to see Lucifer shoot into the trees again, settling onto a thick branch with all the grace of a storm cloud.
The black feathers shimmered in the sunlight, casting long shadows. He looked every bit the fallen angel he was—elegant, sharp, and dangerously proud.
"…He's up there again?" Moses muttered.
Yahweh's expression didn't change. He gazed after the retreating figure, eyes unreadable.
"I don't know," he said softly.
But in truth, he did.
Lucifer had always done this—ever since he was young.
Whenever he was upset, he'd climb the highest tree and stew in silence.
And Yahweh had always let him.