They've been spending a ridiculous amount of time together, most of it entwined on his couch but they still haven't actually gone on a proper date. He's decided on nothing too formal so, instead of taking her out, he's cooking for her, the sitting room and kitchen of the apartment low-lit, soft music playing. He wants to show her how invested in this he is. He wants her to understand how much she matters.

Enough is enough.

He's been in a black temper for days, since his conversation with the priest. He wakes up on a Sunday, the day dedicated to the worship of the false god, detirmined to have his way. Either Sabrina will reign at his side willingly, or he'll force her to, one way or another.

The bar is easy enough to find. It's underground, down a narrow set of stairs and then it's burnished wood and copper and soft light. It reminds him a lot of Gray's place in Greendale and, as such, seems like a perfect place to set up his throne.

The bartender puts up a small fight. There's a bullet wound that stings for a second before he heals it, leaving behind the faintest of silver scars on Nick Scratch's skin. He takes the man apart a piece at a time, buries his hands in viscera until his nails are grimed with blood. The man tastes sweet in all his pain and terror.

He stops hiding. He broadcasts his presence far and wide.
Let his daughter come.

It's time that they spoke face to face, with everything out in the open. It's time that this came to an end.

He stalks this sad little town, gathering information, finding out the lay out of the land. He knows what Scratch knows, obviously, but it seems that the warlock has bothered himself, mostly, with paltry things since arriving - mortals and plays. He does know a lot about Sabrina Spellman, and these are things that Lucifer files away, lest they be useful, later. He picks through Scratch's brain, discarding things that aren't helpful.

He does enjoy coffee, though. At least mortals have done one small thing of note.

He comes and goes. Mostly, he's up at the top of the mountain, causing what trouble he can, helping out the prisoners, doing everything he can to make things a little more bearable. He sees Sabrina as much as he can, finds her beautiful and terrible in a way that's altogether too familiar. It's a role that comes naturally to her, and he knows that neither of them are entirely comfortable with that.

It's dark (of course), when he comes up for air, heading down the mountain to shower and change into warmer clothes. He'll probably have to burn everything he's worn up there; the smell clings in the fibres.

He's dressed in warm layers, stout boots, coat and scarf when he knocks the door of Marcus' cabin. In cat form, Salem twines around his ankles.

"We'll go back soon, man," he says, quietly. "She'll be okay without us for a little while."

It's all going so well, until the moment when it all falls apart. He'd stood there with the others, aware of all of the glamour laced around the like threads of gold, watching Sabrina and the Dark Lord dance, unable to tell, in that moment, which one of them shone brighter. It was like they were both bleeding light. When the Dark Lord had come to Nick with his request, he'd been in a different form, and it had never occurred to Nick, never in his life, that he could be so...beautiful.

It makes sense though. When he thinks about it.

When the others start chanting, Nick starts chanting too, repeating the words that he's learned by heart, that he knows in his muscles, in his bones. A spell to bind the devil; an incantation to beat him at his own name.

By the time Lilith sends the glamour up in smoke, by the time Lucifer catches on, it's too late. The trap's been set.

"I told you what would happen if you defied me again," he spits and something inside Nick, something primal and primate, wants to run away and hide somewhere deep and dark and secret. Sabrina doesn't back down though. She's brave and brilliant, in her crown; she's blazing light. She is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing that Nick Scratch has ever seen.

But he's always thought that, hasn't he?

"Remember my name!" she says, "Remember it was me - Sabrina Spellman - who beat you, Lucifer Morningstar."

Ambrose sends the Acheron Configuration skittering across the floor and light flares before it dies and Lucifer Morningstar, Satan, the Dark Lord himself, is gone without trace.

It feels like his heart is going to burst in his chest. He's so proud of her. He loves her so much. Even if she never wants him close to her ever again, that's a thing that's always going to be true.

"Well planned, Spellman," he says.

"Yes," says Zelda. "Edward would have been proud."

And then it doesn't matter what anyone else would have said, what anyone else thinks, because the Acheron jumps and shudders in Sabrina's hand and she cries out like she's been burned, and then the thing explodes into all of these pieces and there he is, once again, beautiful and terrible in his fury.

"You try and try to defeat me! I am the great Satan, that no prison may contain!"

He surges forward towards Sabrina and then, just as suddenly, stops, and Nick can feel the power coming off Lilith in waves. How did they ever mistake her for anything other than what she so clearly was? How stupid were they?

"Hold that nasty thought! I can't restrain him for long. We'll need a better prison. A stronger one."

And what she says is true - that the most perfect prison ever created was one of flesh and bone, all of the shit and blood and wonder that went into human bodies, witch or mortal. Bodies were miracles, mazes, and Nick knows, in that moment, what he has to do next. The only choice he has, really. A way to make up for everything that he's done wrong, every step he took away from the girl in front of him. When Sabrina insists that it has to be her, there's a chorus of disagreement, but nobody's voice is as vehement as Nick's own.

"Absolutely not! I'm the best binder and conjurer since Edward Spellman; if anyone can keep him trapped, it's me."

He can feel the relief coming off everyone except Sabrina, which makes sense too; who did he ever belong to, before he belonged to her? He looks at her, a tear overspilling her lashes and rolling down her cheek, and it feels like his heart is going to burst. It feels like he can't breathe for loving her, like there's no room in his body for anything else.

"I love you, Spellman…" He says, the first time he's ever said it, to anyone, his whole life. He didn't even know that he could feel it, not like this. "You taught me how to love."

The words come back to him. Body. Darkness. Hold. Hold. Hold. Palace. Prison.

He hits his chest to finish the incantation and there's this rush of darkness, this roaring noise in his ears and he drops down to his knee, and he's fighting it, he's fighting so, so hard, because he's never wanted anything in his life, he's never wanted anything like he wants her to be safe, and...and….

"Nick? Nicholas?"

He hears her say his name, as if from a long way away, but he can't see anything, can't make out anything except the vaguest hint of gold in the darkness, gold that might be her hair or her dress or her crown, and then he hears Ambrose (he thinks) cry something about sleep, and he's gone then…

Nothing. For a long, long time.