Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Alastor, hey! Can I talk to you for a bit?”

Charlie’s dulcet tones scratch across Alastor’s mind like nails on a chalkboard, but he pivots nonetheless, an ebullient smile chiseled onto his face. The first walk he chanced after getting his ass handed to him by Adam, and it takes everything in him to not wince at the sudden change in momentum. His body protests with every step, made worse by the sudden stop, as it brings unpleasantly into focus just how much his chest wound is throbbing.  Still, with his reputation on the line, he infuses his words with the facsimile of warmth that seems to work wonders on her.

“Ah, Charlie! What a fine morning! What can I do for you, dear?”

Her big, guileless eyes offer an apology as she fidgets in front of him.

“Uhm, I am really sorry to give you more work, but this would be, ah, more of a personal favor? I mean, you are a pillar protecting this hotel and-“

Ordinarily, Alastor is quite amused by the princess’ fumbling attempts at being circumspect, but finds his patience to be in appallingly short supply. The only thing he wants is for her to get to the point and leave him be.

“There, there, no need to pussyfoot around little ol’ me! What’s a personal favor between friends?”  

He would ordinarily rather eat nails than pass up an opportunity to milk this situation for all it’s worth, but needs must. And right now, he must get away from her before her endless radar for hurt little puppies detects the gaping wound in his chest. (The LITERAL hole in his chest, not the hole where his heart is meant to be, by the way. )

The princess of hell sags with relief, offering him a tentative smile that he would ordinarily find almost charming, but now makes him want to pull his hair out by the fistful. He bites his tongue instead, blood blooming in his mouth. Pity his own tastes like swamp water, or he’d partake in it more often.

“See, it’s my dad…”

Alastor instantly regrets agreeing to a freebie. Not Lucifer, that weak, spineless fool. To be endowed with so much angelic power and proceed to waste it for an eternity - ah, what Alastor could (and would) do had he access to it…

Charlie takes no notice of his rictus smile (small blessings), and goes on: “Every time I talk to him he puts on a brave face, but I can tell he’s very down. I tried to find out what’s bothering him, but he’d never tell me because he doesn’t want to worry me.” Her shoulders slump and for a moment she’s the picture of abject misery, and Alastor perks up. Lucifer’s repeated failures at bonding with Charlie are very much a delectable morsel of drama, and he’ll take any form of diversion he can get right now.

“And you want me to do… what exactly?”

“Talk to him! I know you’re not exactly best friends…”

Alastor suppresses the urge to snort. “What makes you think your dear papa would listen to anything I say? He’s not exactly my biggest fan.”

Charlie looks distinctly uncomfortable for a moment before spilling her guts: “Look, you have a unique talent for pushing my dad’s buttons and if he gets angry with you, he might let the truth slip. It’s worth a try?”

Alastor’s eyes widen in surprise before his smile turns more genuine.

“What a magnificent idea!” He means it too. “I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Alastor compliments her, leaning heavily on his staff. “I would be delighted to put your little plan into action!”

More like delighted to antagonize Lucifer to his heart’s content, despite Charlie’s repeated pleas for everyone to get along.  Now this, he could do.

“Oh, thank you Alastor!” She cries out joyfully and for a horrifying moment he thinks she’s about to fling herself at him for a hug, but she contents herself with a little bounce, blonde hair floating around her like a halo. “I knew I could count on you!”

“Of course, my dear,” Alastor says placidly and bestows a perfunctory pat to the top of her head, amused to see her all but melt into the gesture. Oh boy, was Lucifer an abysmal parental figure if Alastor could buy her adoration with a single, middling gesture. It was gratifying to have something over Lucifer’s head, even if it was only in Alastor’s mind.

“Tell me all about it later!” She giggles happily and all but skips down the corridor, waving at him before she’s gone around the corner.

Alastor breathes a sigh of relief and his winning smile drops a fraction.

Ah well, no rest for the wicked.

He finds Lucifer in the newly refurbished bar, sitting alone in one of the tastefully upholstered booths, as far away from the barkeep as possible. From experience, Alastor knows Husker prefers it that way – the less work he has to do, the better. At this time of night (actually, scratch that, it’s 5:34 in the morning), the place is deserted, and Alastor gives Husk a look, which the latter interprets correctly. “Not getting involved, boss.” Husk scoffs with an obvious nod at Lucifer and slinks away from his post with a bottle in hand.

Lucifer is staring morosely at his glass, managing to look even more like a kicked puppy than Charlie usually manages, except in his case it’s less adorable and more just utterly pathetic. His usual ringmaster hat is nowhere to be found.

Alastor coughs politely and a radio bursts to life in the background, interrupting the brooding silence with a subdued bluesy tune.

Lucifer finally looks up from his glass and his face morphs in disgust at the mere sight of Alastor.

“Oh, great. What do you want? Ran out of sinners to cannibalize already?”

“Ha ha!” Alastor rebukes, “How kind of you to worry about my dietary needs!”

“Fuck off; I’m not in the mood for your snarky bullshit right now.”

“Does that imply there are times when you are?” Alastor needles him, head tilted to the side.

Lucifer sighs in utter aggravation and smacks the back of his head against the upholstery, the entirety of his short body splayed across the expansive seat. His voice comes out as a grating whine.

“Why are you here, asshole? What about me is saying ‘Oh yes, please bother me right now’, huh?”

Alastor would like to point out that this exact reaction is precisely what makes Lucifer so eminently botherable, but he refrains. His shark-sharp smile doesn’t abate one iota, however.

“It may have slipped your notice, your Highness, but your incessant moping is bothering our sweet Charlie and she has relegated the duty of managing it to me.” Alastor says, sickly sweet, very proud of the amount of digs at Lucifer he’s managed to cram into a single sentence.

The grogginess evaporates from Lucifer’s countenance for the moment as he blurts out: “Charlie’s worried about me?”

Alastor honestly cannot fathom why she would care for a father so pathetic, but then again, human emotions never made much sense to him, before or after his inevitable descent to hell.

“Of course she is!” Alastor proclaims with a theatrical flare of his fingers, ignoring the throbbing pulse of pain that the movement provokes.

“Charlie’s worried about me,” Lucifer says dopily, like he’s warming to the idea that he’s cared for and it’s so ridiculous Alastor wants to laugh. Then Lucifer’s face drops and he slumps against the table, flopping like a particularly ridiculous albino eel slapped onto a fishmonger’s stall. “I didn’t want her to notice,” Lucifer mopes, “it’s not her problem.”

Alastor merely quirks an eyebrow. “And what is this problem you are trying to keep from your loving daughter, hmm?”

Lucifer gives him a baleful look and spits out: “Why the fuck would I tell you?”

Alastor can almost respect the amount of venom pooled in that word and takes a second to savor it.

“Because if you keep it up, poor Charlie will come to me, crying on my shoulder about being unable to help her poor, suffering father and… well. You would be doing me a favor, my good man! Spending quality time with that darling girl is hardly a hardship, after all.”

Lucifer’s lip curls as he unpeels himself off the table, eyes narrowed, staring proverbial daggers at Alastor and probably getting a crick in his neck for his troubles. Serves him right.

“You bastard.”

“Ha ha!” Alastor allows the low-level insult to slide off his back. Nothing he hasn’t heard before. With as much grace as is possible, he sits in the booth next to Lucifer, who retreats as if Alastor is a carrier of a particularly virulent strain of Spanish influenza. “Now, now, we’re both adults here. I’m sure we can come to some sort of mutual agreement that would satisfy dear Charlie?”

“I’m not making a deal with you.” Lucifer says adamantly, grabbing his half-full glass and taking another swig.

“Who said anything about a deal?” Alastor says innocently, “A conversation will do.”

“Uh-uh.” Lucifer scoffs, skepticism dripping out of every angelic pore in his perpetually youthful face. “As if there are no ways to weaponize that.”

Alastor’s smile turns nasty with glee. “I could always tell poor Charlie that her father is turning to alcohol as a coping mechanism and being a terrible example for the souls seeking redemption in this fine establishment?”

Lucifer’s eyes shift and he lashes out faster than Alastor could have predicted, jabbing a tiny index finger straight into Alastor’s chest. “If you fuck with my daughter, I am going to END you.”

Startled, Alastor’s throat squeezes shut at the agonizing pain lancing through his ribcage, ricocheting down every nerve-ending in his body. Entirely involuntary, a deer cry rends the air, slipping past Alastor’s usually impervious defenses and he tenses up, more rigid than a mortal in the throes of rigor mortis.

Damnation.

There’s no way Lucifer hasn’t heard that and sure as death, Lucifer’s pasty pale visage switches from irate to confused to contemplative, and then his small mouth acquires a malicious slant as he jabs his finger deeper into Alastor’s wound, bandage rubbing into the viscera beneath.  Alastor hisses, attempting to flare up his shadow and lash out in defense, but nothing happens. His horns sprout an inch or two, but it becomes increasingly apparent that none of his powers will be making an appearance. Before Lucifer’s smug smile can get any worse, Alastor snatches Lucifer’s hand away, holding an alabaster wrist in a vice grip that’s a hair’s breadth away from puncturing skin.

Lucifer isn’t even phased by the threat and all but purrs: “What an interesting development.”

Alastor very much wants to tear Lucifer limb from limb for the humiliation, but can’t speak past the pain seizing his lungs.

“You’re wounded,” Lucifer sing-songs, posture turning relaxed as he crosses his legs, the epitome of unconcerned and Alastor wants very badly to rip his arm off. Oh, he’s very aware it would be the last thing he ever did, as Lucifer would no doubt smite him on the spot. Alastor is many things, but suicidal is not one of them.  Alastor grapples with his feeling for a moment, and reels one in – ah, it’s regret. Lucifer, however, doesn’t let him stew in it for long.

“I guess Adam got you good.” Lucifer drawls, voice turning sickeningly cutesy. “Aw, wish I could write him a thank you card, but he’s been disposed of by your diminutive homicidal minion. What a pity.”

Alastor’s eyes narrow. The nerve of him, to employ such an insult.

“Ah, yes. Niffty pulled her weight in that battle, unlike a certain someone who waited in the wings to play savior.” Alastor spits, eyes turning to slits in genuine irritation.

Lucifer tuts, “Now, now, no need to be envious. It’s not my fault you were too weak to protect my daughter.”

Alastor drops Lucifer’s wrist in disgust. As if he would even be here, babysitting the sniveling princess, without that damnable deal!

“I do believe I am interested in that conversation you wanted,” Lucifer says primly, fixing the cuff of his wrinkled shirt.

“Are you?” Alastor says sarcastically. “How magnanimous.”

“Oh, I do believe I am quite magnanimous. Noblesse oblige, wasn’t it?”

Alastor gives him an unimpressed look. “Before my time.”

Lucifer laughs, high and bright like a church bell. “Yes, yes… let me get to the point before you rot into the upholstery in front of my eyes.” The dismissive tone is especially grating, but Alastor has no choice but to grin and bear it. F̵̨̡̡̼̩͕̂̈́ơ̶͈͙̠͔̺͎͕̋́̄̈́̾ŗ̵͚̭̪͎͐͗̒̉ ̵̗̓́͆̒͘͝n̴̢̛̝̳͍̥͕̟͒̐̌͘o̵̭͈͐͋w̵̡̲͎̙͑̈́̉͂.̶̢̧͙͖̜̀͜

“Pure angelic power, such as the one that smote you, is fundamentally incompatible with demonic anatomy. It is, quite literally, trying to dissolve you on an atomic level as we speak.”

Alastor’s radio static crackles in the silence between them more as a token protest rather than genuine menace.

“And while you are so keen to use my daughter’s name against me, I will concede that she would be absolutely heartbroken to lose your services, which is the only reason I have not mounted your head on my wall yet.”

Alastor’s smile turns into a distasteful snarl.  Isn’t foresight is a wonderful thing?

“Now, you can complete your inevitable transformation into the gangrenous pustule you are, or you can make a deal with me.”

Backed so thoroughly into the corner, Alastor can’t help but temporarily concede.

“Terms?” He says, affecting an unbothered tone.

Lucifer swirls the liquid in his glass, savoring the situation far more than he ever has the liquor in it.

“I prevent your well-deserved demise in exchange for…” here Lucifer pretends to ponder for a while before his face breaks out into a smile considerably softer than anything Alastor has seen from him this morning. “In exchange for you telling my daughter we have buried the hatchet.”

“And have we?”

Lucifer laughs again, holding his side as he convulses in amusement.  “As far as she is concerned, we have.”

Alastor narrows his eyes. “She will ask for details.”

Lucifer sobers and downs the rest of his drink. “That’s true. Alright. We’ll do this her way then.”

“No trust falls, please. Surely you don’t wish me to expire from my injuries before the terms of this deal are complete? Poor Charlie would be devastated.”

Lucifer strikes again, like a viper, pushing his palm into Alastor’s chest, pinning him to the booth. All that comes out of Alastor is an agonized hiss followed by a trickle of blood out of the corner of his mouth.

“Keep. My. Daughter’s. Name. Out. Of. Your. Filthy. Sinner. Mouth.” Lucifer speaks slowly, as if he’s trying to reason with a particularly obstinate child. “Capisce?”

The pain is absolutely blinding.

The static dies out and Alastor speaks a low, singular, “Yes.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Lucifer smiles affably and wipes his hand on Alastor’s suit as a mirror to the gesture Alastor pulled on him after they first shook hands. Touché.

“Right, terms of this deal. I will heal you, and you will promise not to antagonize me using Charlie as your excuse. I’ll have you know, it’s really revolting.”

All things considered, the deal is more than favorable to Alastor. Perhaps he shouldn’t have needled Lucifer so much. His relationship with Charlie was clearly a sore spot. And he isn’t stupid enough to point out that the deal is unequal, so Alastor merely offers his hand.

Lucifer nods, expression one of relief, and they shake on it.

“It’s a deal,” they utter in unison, and Alastor feels a shiver as the binding promise slithers through his veins with a warm pulse, vivid green and angelic gold mixing in the air between them. With a deep breath, Lucifer lets go of Alastor’s hand and snaps his fingers, a portal shimmering into existence next to their table.

“Where are we going?” Alastor asks, apprehension rising in his gut.

“My house.”

“Why?”

“Does Charlie ever barge into your room?” Lucifer asks blithely.

“She does,” Alastor admits.

“Likewise,” Lucifer states drily, “Unless you… want her to see exactly how close we’ve gotten while I’m holding my hand over your naked chest?”

“… I see.” Alastor says, radio static settling over his voice once again.

Lucifer beckons as he rises out of his seat, as graceful as a serpent: “Come.”

Out of options, and with the terms of the deal shimmering across his skin, Alastor follows.

Chapter Text

“Make yourself comfortable,” Lucifer gestures to the sofa as he turns his back on Alastor.

Alastor doesn’t point out how unwise either the statement or the gesture are, but holds his tongue. He sinks into the decadently supple upholstery and must concede that Lucifer at least has passable taste in furniture, even if the rest of his décor is…tacky. Every available surface is littered with small rubber ducks – peering from atop bookshelves, piled under the table, perching upon chairs, spilling out of drawers, hanging from the ceiling – the entire space is absolutely TEEMING with the damned things.

Fascinating.

What’s even more fascinating are the family portraits hanging on the wall, images of saccharine-sweet domestic bliss featuring a happy Lucifer with Lilith and baby Charlie. Then he takes in the childish teacups, the marionette hanging on the wall, and the predominant motif of circus tents and wonders…

A splash of water snaps him out of his musings as he looks to the source of the noise, and it would seem Lucifer has conjured himself a washbasin and is busy washing his face.

“You are staring too loudly,” Lucifer says off-handedly as he drags his drenched palms through his blonde hair, slicking it back.

“I didn’t say anything.” Alastor shrugs, pointedly looking at the tips of his fingernails.

Lucifer rolls his eyes and proceeds to shrug out of his coat, draping it over a sinister-looking chair. Alastor wonders where he could find a similar one.

“Clothes off,” Lucifer demands, rolling up his sleeves.

“I beg your pardon?” Alastor prickles.

“Oh for the love of- do you think I’m going to ravish you?” Lucifer chuckles like he’s made the funniest joke in the world. “Seriously, why are you getting your panties in a twist? Do you want me to permanently glue all that fabric to your flesh?” 

“That would be…unpleasant.” Alastor states the obvious.

Lucifer makes a gesture of ‘well, get on with it already?’ and Alastor bristles at the command. Does Lucifer honestly expect him to disrobe in front of him like it’s nothing? There’s a reason why Alastor has EXACTLY that many layers upon his person at all times.

“Oh, for fucks sake, fine-“ Lucifer throws his hands up and pointedly pivots around his heel. “I won’t peer at your virginal flesh, for Christ’s sake.”

Alastor narrows his eyes at this. Surely the issue of his sexuality isn’t something that Lucifer could know. Alastor has never told anyone. Sure, Rosie knows he has no romantic or sexual desires whatsoever, but the matter of whether he’s ever lain with another person has never been brought up by anyone and Alastor likes it that way. After all, a virgin in hell is a vanishingly rare occurrence, not that he puts any importance to his own virginity, naturally, but it’s one of the things people in hell could gleefully leverage when making a deal and Alastor doesn’t want it getting out. The less leverage people have over him, the better.

“The more you stall the worse it gets…” Lucifer supplies unhelpfully.

“Aw, should I be flattered that the king of hell wants to see my bared form?” Alastor teases, fingers loosening his bowtie. Lucifer shudders before him, and Alastor takes the minor win. He drops the bowtie across an errant cushion next to him and places his staff against the arm of the sofa, then proceeds to unbutton his coat. “It must have been terribly long for you, judging by the state of these rooms – I doubt you’re bringing any paramours in here.”

“Jesus, fuck! Would you stop talking?” Lucifer groans before him, shoulders hunching and Alastor stops to assess the vulnerable slope of his neck, the rigid line of his back, the outline of his ass in those pristine, well-tailored trousers, and the fit of his shiny black knee-high boots and ponders whether he’s hit the nail on the head. He gets the distinct impression that Lucifer might actually be cripplingly lonely, at least when not in the immediate vicinity of his sunny little daughter and wonders if that fact might be exploitable.

Once he’s shrugged out of his fitted coat, he unbuttons his shirt next, and pulls both down his shoulders. All that’s left are the deeply bloodied bandages which he doesn’t have the strength to remove. He intends to use Lucifer for that, all the while making him as uncomfortable as possible.

“I’m ready,” Alastor all but sings, seating himself like a naughty little ingénue trying to look appealing to an older, well-established gentleman.

“Finally,” Lucifer exclaims, and Alastor can hear the eyeroll before Lucifer has turned fully towards him and…the moment is exactly as priceless as Alastor had hoped it would be – Lucifer stammers, eyes wide, and the apples on his cheeks ripen to a fetching shade of crimson.

“You’re doing this on purpose, you warped little fuck!”

“Doing what?” Alastor asks with a head tilt, all smiles and feigned ignorance.

“Ugh,” Lucifer shudders and fixes his gaze on the bloodied bandages binding Alastor’s chest. “That’s nastier than I thought.”

Ordinarily, Alastor would assume that was a dig at his appearance, but Lucifer’s wince of sympathy seems genuine. How sweet.

“Knees together,” Lucifer says and Alastor gives him a glare. “Could you not be a prick for one second? Is that too much to ask?”

“It would be more helpful if you supplemented the information on why I should obey, hmm?”

“Because I have to sit on your lap?” Lucifer says as if it’s perfectly self-evident and Alastor is the unreasonable one for asking.

Alastor pours as much disdain as he can muster into: “Why?”

“Cause that floor isn’t comfortable to kneel on.”

“We could always do this standing?”

“A ha ha ha, no,” Lucifer chuckles, “this will hurt like a BITCH. You’ll collapse on the floor and I don’t feel like fixing your stubborn skull in case you fracture it.”

“Why not sit beside me, then?”

“Because I might need to restrain you while I’m fusing your flesh together. You will resist it. Trust me.”

Alastor glares at him.

“Look, you’re not the first asshole demon I had to pull angelic powers from. Why don’t you just cooperate, for once? I really don’t feel like chasing you around this room like a cockroach when you get it in your head that I’m murdering you.”

“What happened to said demon?” Alastor asks, half out of curiosity, half out of self-preservation.

“They flew up mid-treatment and tore the very fabric of their being apart  – poof! –  instant death – the permanent kind, by the way. Charlie was crying for weeks. Lilith took her away for three months after that – “ Lucifer stops himself, visibly startled that he’s shared that much.

Alastor decides to be graceful about it. “Ah, how unwise of them. Let’s not repeat their mistake.”

Lucifer sighs in relief, carding the hair out of his eyes. “Great! Now we’re on the same page, can I please sit in your lap?”

Something about that earnest, albeit irritated request makes something in Alastor squirm. He decides to analyze it at a later date.

“By all means, my good chum!” Alastor exclaims affably, uncrosses his legs and pats his knees in invitation.

Lucifer grumbles something unintelligible, but doesn’t offer further complaints as he climbs over Alastor to straddle his knees. Had Alastor not been, well, Alastor, he would characterize the pose as intimate, what with Lucifer’s left hand grasping the backrest right next to Alastor’s ear, and leaning over him, close enough to taste his breath. Seeing how he IS, in fact, himself, he merely finds the facsimile of intimacy amusing. Lucifer settles on Alastor’s lap with no fuss, and Alastor is mildly surprised at the fact he doesn’t find his weight there off-putting or uncomfortable. How strange. He supposes he’s too entertained by the situation to overly mind the fact that someone is way too close to him for comfort. Oh, and the fact he is currently dying, that might have something to do with it.

Lucifer snaps his fingers and a teeny, tiny pair of dainty scissors float up from a workbench tucked into the far end of the room. The finger rings do a double spin around Lucifer’s extended digits and then settle in his hands. Alastor must admit that the dramatic flair of Lucifer’s magic is quite aesthetically pleasing, and the casual ease with which he wields it is a sobering reminder that he’s dealing with a being a fair margin stronger than he is…

F̶͕̭͔͉͐̈́͒͠o̸̡͍̐͛̍͋r̸̙̮̕͝ ̸̻̔̅n̴͓̫̭͠o̷͚͕̽͘w̷̱̻̲̙̃́̾̀.̵̻̬͙͚̂͐

“Apologies in advance, this will hurt.” Lucifer says with his delicate scissors held aloft. “I’ll try not to nick you in the process.”

Strangely enough, Alastor believes him. Lucifer doesn’t strike him as particularly sadistic. Not by Hell’s standards, anyway.

With that said, Lucifer focuses once more on the garish stain slowly encroaching upon what remains of the white bandages Alastor’s changed not three hours prior. Lucifer’s left hand, black to the elbow (and possibly beyond), hovers uncertainly over the wound, fingers twitching, almost as if afraid to touch. A gold band twinkles on his finger, presumably his wedding band. Alastor wonders whether Lucifer had ever taken it off, despite his wife and queen deserting him seven years ago.

A soft snip rends the fabric, and Alastor feels the deep pressure binding his ribcage together give way. Methodically, without as much as a hint of a sneer, Lucifer works on peeling the soaked bandages off of Alastor’s grisly wound. Naturally, Alastor watches it all unflinchingly, it’s not like he hasn’t seen worse (on others), though he must admit this is by far the most grievous injury he’s received and lived to tell the tale. He fully expected Lucifer to taunt him with it, but the king of Hell remains quiet, and dare Alastor think it, almost respectful.

With a lazy flick of Lucifer’s black fingers, the loosened bandages slither away and deposit themselves in the summoned water basin. Alastor wonders briefly why Lucifer didn’t simply destroy them, but his train of thought is rudely interrupted when Lucifer’s splayed fingers land directly on the open wound.

Alastor howls, a deer screech rending the air. “A warning would have been nice,” he snarls, and Lucifer flicks his gaze upwards briefly.

“It wouldn’t have done you any good,” Lucifer says flatly. “And it gets worse before it gets better, sorry.”

Alastor doesn’t have the time to parse that before it happens – a blazing, molten pain spreading through his veins like wildfire, immolating his very soul in the process.

“Shhh,” Lucifer mutters and presses his forehead to Alastor’s, right hand cradling his head. “It won’t take much longer if you stay still, I promise.”

“Must you touch me?” Alastor hisses a complaint, the feeling of unwanted fingers curling in his hair, however gently, makes his skin crawl.

“Shut up before you bite your tongue off,” Lucifer admonishes him. “Bringing someone back from the brink of permanent death takes a lot of power.”

Alastor is trying to breathe through the pain, and is expending every effort to keep his eyes open to take in every last detail of the proceedings. It will come in handy one day, he is sure of it. Lucifer, for one, seems to be sweating, if that is even possible for an angel. Perhaps Alastor’s vision is going fuzzy.

“What are you doing to me, exactly?” Alastor squeezes between his teeth.

“It has spread, you arrogant ass. That’s why you can’t use your powers. I’m trying to suck it all out and you’re breaking my focus so I’ll kindly ask you, in the spirit of mutual cooperation, to pretty please shut the fuck up already before I’m forced to gag you.”

The image that presents is quite amusing, and Alastor would ordinarily reward that with a chuckle, but a pained groan makes it past his jagged teeth instead. He presumes he should be more worried about the fact Lucifer has managed to suss out that his powers have taken an involuntary sabbatical, but the pain is quite intense and is making it a trifle difficult to think.

The molten in his veins does seem to be crawling, ever so slowly, towards the wound, so he takes Lucifer’s words to be the truth. Who knew that getting injured could be so profitable?

“Almost there,” Lucifer soothes, and Alastor wonders whether Lucifer would treat anyone this way, or whether he’s lost in some kind of memory of treating one of Charlie’s minor scrapes growing up. His money is on the latter. “You’re doing well,” Lucifer praises him mindlessly.

“Don’t patronize me,” Alastor growls.

“Aw, as cuddly as a cactus, you.” Lucifer retorts and Alastor bares his teeth as much as his face can accommodate. “Mhm, love you too, honey.” Lucifer mutters deadpan and frowns, staring down into the gaping wound that’s begun to shrink around his fingers.

Alastor would happily respond with a barb of his own, but at that moment, the searing pain is, quite literally, sucked out of him with a gasp. Lucifer peels his sticky hand from Alastor’s skin, which knits back together seamlessly in his wake, with nary a blemish to commemorate the occasion. The second his skin is healed, Lucifer retreats, hand gently disentangling from Alastor’s hair as he gets up off his lap.

Alastor drags his gloved fingertips over the newly healed skin and lets out an appreciative purr. He supposes Lucifer can’t be accused of shoddy craftsmanship.

“There, all better.” Lucifer says with a proud smile from across the room, all the while rinsing his hands in a gentle cascade of water pouring from a jug held aloft with naught but his magic.

“Thank you,” Alastor says primly, and begins to put himself to rights.

“Don’t mention it,” Lucifer says nonchalantly, wiping his hands on a crisp white towel he’s managed to conjure from somewhere. Perhaps all of these things are in the drawers and he’s just summoning them instead of conjuring them outright.

Alastor’s retort is swift and to the point: “Wasn’t planning to.”

“Good.” Lucifer concludes. “Care for a cup of tea?”

Alastor makes a face. “No, thank you.”

Lucifer seems taken aback for a moment, and then backpedals, “Ah, yeah, of course. Sorry, it’s been a long time since I had a guest. I’m a bit rusty.”

Alastor scrutinizes the ruler of Hell. “You misunderstood, I was merely expressing that tea isn’t my preferred beverage.”

“Oh!” Lucifer bangs his fist into the palm of his other hand like a miniature gavel, “I see! Would you prefer coffee? Or something else? There must be some liquor stashed away here, somewhere…”

Alastor finds himself baffled. He presumed Lucifer would toss him out on his ass the second the procedure was done, possibly through a portal a mile above Pentagram City so he could plummet to the ground, but it seems the diminutive king isn’t quite as bloodthirsty as that.

“Coffee would be acceptable.” Alastor offers, while adjusting his bowtie.

“Great! I’ll just pop down by the kitchen - grab a book or something, if you want.” Lucifer offers a friendly wave, soiled washbasin under his arm, and disappears behind the double doors.

Silence descends on the garishly decorated room and Alastor takes the opportunity to take in a deep breath. For the first time in days, his ribs don’t twinge. He cracks all his joints and flexes his shadow, which crawls across the ceiling, antlers extending until they’re filling the entirety of the room and Alastor sighs in pleasure. He drapes himself with his power until it retreats back underneath his skin and rolls his shoulders for good measure. It feels so good to be whole.

Alastor rises from the couch and gives the now empty room a more thorough inspection. Why did Lucifer leave him here alone? Was this some kind of test? He was at least mollified to find the room didn’t contain a television set, but there was a radio on one of the shelves. Not the classy kind from his era, but a radio nonetheless. There were various tools affixed to the wall above Lucifer’s workbench, and a solitary duckling perched on top of it, wearing a party hat.

Unable to resist his curiosity, Alastor opens the drawers to peer at their contents. If he’s lucky, perhaps there will be a diary, or something sordid he could use to his advantage. What he does find, is something far more mundane than that – piles upon piles of childish scribbles depicting a small family complete with pets. Ah. He’s run afoul of Lucifer’s stash of nostalgic nonsense. The drawer is also littered with broken crayons, candy wrappers, and a solitary knitted baby bootie made out of soft pink yarn. Alastor is well aware of how whipped Lucifer is for his daughter, but this is too much, even for him. He closes the drawer shut and contemplates whether to open the other one as well.

On one hand, if there’s another pile of sentimental refuse, he’s liable to gag, but there’s always the off chance there could be something of actual substance… With a sigh, he pulls it open, looming over it. Damned Lucifer and his vertically-challenged furniture. And inside…

A silky, midnight-purple night gown.

Ah. Lilith’s. Next to it, lays a dried rose and Alastor is about to roll his eyes and slam it shut, when a glint of something golden catches his eye. Half-hidden by the crumbling petals, there gleams a simple golden band. His eyes go wide. Ah, so this separation is a bit more permanent than previously assumed? After eons together, a mere seven year separation wouldn’t ordinarily mean much, but if Lilith has thrown her ring away… that is a different story.

Alastor slides the drawer shut with nary a whisper. He should pick up a book to peruse before he’s caught. He doubts there is much more to find in this room, so he strolls towards the solitary book case and caresses the spines until he lands on a title he’s familiar with. He pulls it out, intrigued by the old spine. His gaze lingers on the covers, a muted, faded green, and the winding, stylized staircase with a coiling dragon at its base. The book crinkles open - a first edition, printed in 1933. He flips a few pages until his eyes linger on a particular poem and he can’t help but read it aloud to himself.

“Nor dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;

A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;

Many times he died,
Many times rose again,
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath;

He knows death to the bone –
Man has created death.”

“Death by Yeats, correct?”

Alastor whips around, only to find Lucifer standing in the doorway with a silver platter containing an equally ornate carafe and a pair of delicate cups.

“How long have you been standing there?” Alastor asks accusingly.

“Long enough.” Lucifer states cryptically and steps into the room, entirely unrepentant. He places the tray on the table and takes a seat. “ You do have an incredible voice for radio. Perhaps you could broadcast some poetry? It might elevate some of this rabble.”

“Or scare them half to death.” Alastor snaps the book shut and returns it to the shelf before taking the chair opposite Lucifer, who cracks a small smile.

“Or that,” Lucifer concedes, busying himself with arranging the cup with its accompanying saucer in front of Alastor. “Do you take any sugar?”

“Absolutely not.”

Lucifer laughs. “Of course not,” and proceeds to pour Alastor a steaming, fragrant cup before serving himself.

Ah, so there exists a modicum of etiquette in that scrawny body.

Alastor steeples his fingers and allows the coffee to cool, sending delicate tendrils of steam into the air.

Lucifer proceeds to drop two lumps of sugar into his coffee, stirs it daintily and deposits his spoon on his saucer. “Mmm, this is nice.”

Alastor is dying to ask whether the comment was directed at coffee itself, or at the occasion, but he deems it imprudent to ask. If he lets the silence linger, Lucifer is liable to say something sooner or later, and Alastor will happily watch him squirm.

Minutes pass and Lucifer seems content to sit there and sip on his coffee, offering contented noises every now and again. For a moment, Alastor wonders whether Lucifer’s forgotten he’s there altogether. Ah, better try this coffee then; at least it might give him something to criticize.

The aroma seems promising, it smells bitter but not burnt, and Alastor gives it a cautious sip. The taste blooms across his taste buds, rich and bitter and full. “My compliments, this is a rather pleasant blend.”

“Isn’t it?” Lucifer beams at him, the fine white china cradled in his jet-black fingers a pleasant contrast.

“Of course,” Alastor murmurs agreeably. “Is there…a particular reason why you’ve decided to play host?”

Lucifer’s blissful-adjacent smile drops and his brows furrow. “You just had to ruin the moment, didn’t you?”

Alastor shrugs, crossing his legs. “I wasn’t aware there was a pleasure in this that merited ruination.”

Lucifer scoffs. “I can’t believe you.”

“Oh, I assure you, I’m very real.” Alastor parries with ease.

“A real pain in my ass, more like.” Lucifer pouts and takes refuge in his cup.

For the first time, Alastor’s mind flits to the literal meaning of those words. What would it feel like to spear the most powerful being in all of Hell; to have Lucifer Morningstar submit to Alastor’s touch, to cater to his every whim? Contrary to all expectation, he can feel the most neglected part of his anatomy stir in interest at the image.

Ah, but how unwise that would be. Alastor may be fiendishly smart, but in terms of power, he knows Lucifer could obliterate him in the blink of an eye, if he so wished, yet, what if…

What if he made it so Lucifer didn’t want to?

How should he play this to get the outcome he desired?

Patience, Alastor, he tells himself. Many a plan was ruined by being hasty. His untimely demise being an unfortunately pertinent example. If only that blasted hunting dog didn’t start gnawing on the severed leg Alastor had so carefully prepared for ease of transport and burial, he never would have gotten a .300 caliber round from a Savage model 99 straight to the cranium. Utterly humiliating.

“My apologies,” Alastor inclines his head a fraction, “I have, perhaps, grown overly comfortable within the antagonistic parameters of our established relationship.”

Lucifer’s jaw drops, the half-drained coffee cup rattling on its saucer as he tries to stabilize it before it makes a mess on his finely tailored trousers. “Relationship? What blasted relationship?! You live to be contrary and piss me off just for the sake of it!”

Alastor makes a non-committal sound, “Guilty as charged! See, you know me so well.”

“Fine! You wanted me to get to the point? I’ll get to the blasted point.” Lucifer grouses and drops the coffee cup onto the table, the spoon rattling jarringly in the sudden quiet. Alastor receives what must be a pointed glare not to interrupt and decides it’s in his best interests to play along. “God forbid you let me enjoy a moment of respite before I’m forced to spill my guts against my will, fuck-“

Alastor tilts his head in intrigue. Forced? Oh, nobody was being forced here.

Y̵͐͜é̷̞ť̷͎.̶̱̓

Lucifer composes himself and sits straight. “Now, you will listen to me, without any sardonic commentary or so help me, I will undo all my hard work and obliterate you anyway. I’ll tell Charlie I was too late to save you and trust you me, she’ll believe it.”

Alastor swallows. That…sounds plausible. The princess loves her absentee father and would in all likelihood fall for the narrative, especially is Lucifer employed some of that flamboyant flair for the dramatics. A tear or two, a warm hug, an “I’m so sorry, kiddo” and all of Alastor’s hard work would be undone. Hmm, yes…that would never do.

Alastor mimes zipping his mouth shut, and that seems to mollify Lucifer, at least temporarily.

“Look, I’ll level with you, Alastor – I don’t trust you. I know a snake when I see one, but I’ve spent almost the entirety of my immortal life in this hellhole, so I am well equipped to deal with the likes of you.”

Message received, Alastor thinks. Lucifer is looking less and less pathetic by the minute and it’s almost refreshing.

“That said, we can’t keep fighting in front of Charlie. She’s the only thing I care about, and I don’t want to see her upset. Contrary to what you might think, I am very well aware of how I’ve failed her and she deserves better.”

“So… you propose… what exactly? That we become friends?” Alastor can’t help the sneer that creeps in. What an amusing communication strategy, a death threat followed by entreaties for peace!

Lucifer leans across the table, finger pointing at Alastor in the least threatening gesture today. “See? This is what I’m talking about, you pompous twit. You just can’t help yourself.”

“Fine, fine,” Alastor waves it away, “I come in peace!”

Lucifer expels a suffering breath. The whiff of coffee and toffee apples tickles Alastor’s nose.

“It’s called dissimulation, deer boy! It’s called acting, something you have shown yourself to be perfectly capable of while manipulating my daughter. So employ it.”

“Oof!” Alastor mimes being shot in the chest. “What a novel insult! Congratulations.” The static crackles and a sound of garbled applause fills the air. Then he leans in, conspiratorial and playful: “Am I already dear to you? You work fast, your majesty, I can hardly keep up!”

Lucifer snarls, standing up so abruptly the chair clatters to the floor behind him, pointed horns sprouting from his head, his sclera overtaken by crimson and his pupils a gleaming shade of gold. His voice fills with absolute command and Alastor is shocked when a leash materializes out of thin air, restricting his airway like a garrote and for a moment he can do nothing but be pulled out of his chair as Lucifer yanks on the conjured leash.

“Is this how you’d like to play? Because I am more than willing to break you in.”

For the first time, Alastor truly feels outmatched. Not like with Adam, who had all the power and no sense - this is different.  The flame flickers ominously between Lucifer’s horns, a promise of retribution, whether heavenly or hellish, matters little. This isn’t the time to goad the man. More’s the pity, as Alastor has several beautifully loaded rebukes at the ready.

What he settles on instead is: “That… will not be necessary.”

Lucifer yanks at his leash again, and Alastor feels the constriction for the warning it is. (It would look much better around Lucifer’s alabaster neck.)

Instead of banishing the leash, Lucifer pointedly lets it slip out of his fingers.

Ah, how many threats does he need? Alastor is starting to think the king of Hell is all bark and no bite. Alastor picks up the handle and runs it through his fingers; it’s silky smooth and appears like it would be pleasant across one’s bare skin, provided they enjoyed that sort of thing.

“What a fetching color.” Alastor mutters more to himself, but is astounded when Lucifer’s cheeks color once more, and his demonic countenance melts away, leaving behind Lucifer’s more affable, angelic configuration. Lucifer picks up the chair and plops down in it. “Mind if I keep this?” Alastor asks.

Lucifer buries his face in his hands and lets out a groaning scream of what Alastor interprets as abject mortification. His posture bleeds exasperation and there’s a snap of jet black fingers, whereupon the leash loosens and then falls away, slinking back into one of the drawers that opens to swallow it. Alastor decides not to push his luck any further.

“My apologies,” Alastor clears his throat, “I admit I enjoy a spot of banter, and I must have gotten carried away. Mea culpa.”

Lucifer’s glare is baleful and unimpressed.

“I believe we’ve started off on the wrong foot,” Alastor attempts, “I am more than willing to make amends. We’re both reasonable people, I’m sure we can manage a simple conversation without resorting to…drastic measures.”

“Thank you!” Lucifer sags in his chair. “That’s literally the only thing I asked for!”

In the way of peace offering, Alastor throws out a compliment: “This is genuinely a good cup of coffee. It’s been awhile since I’ve enjoyed a cup I haven’t brewed myself.”

Lucifer responds with a half-hearted ‘you’re welcome’, and Alastor takes it in the spirit in which it was given.

Alastor glances at Lucifer’s radio and the modern contraption buzzes to life, emitting a pleasant jazzy tune. He preempts Lucifer’s anger at having his possessions meddled with, and says: “A peace offering – I have noted your love of the arts and thought it might ease our interaction.”

“I prefer classical,” Lucifer says sulkily and reaches for his cup once more, staring sadly at the dregs of coffee at the bottom.

“Consider it done,” Alastor waves his hand and the station flips to an orchestral arrangement, violins weeping gently in the background as the pastoral melody flits around the room.

“Are you being serious, right now?” Lucifer raises an eyebrow.

“What?” Alastor needles as gently as he’s able to get away with. “Is Vivaldi not to your liking?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t go for Summer, it seems more up your alley.”

“Oh, no. Spring is much more jovial, don’t you think? We’re not trying to have a brimstone kind of conversation, are we?”

“Indeed,” Lucifer states regally, and reaches for the carafe to refill his cup.

An entire movement lapses between them, Lucifer’s mood somber as he sips on his second cup of coffee, this time around without the addition of sugar. As violins are building tension and harpsichord is trouncing along as accompaniment, Lucifer finally speaks, eyes downcast and staring into nothing.

“Yesterday was my wedding anniversary.”

Alastor’s gaze snaps upwards. The truth at last.

“We marked the occasion every single year, for eons.” Lucifer murmurs, barely audible enough to hear, and Alastor’s ears twitch in anticipation. Lucifer’s expression is wistful and fond, expressing the depth of feeling Alastor doesn’t think he’d ever be able to fathom. What would that feel like, for emotion to inhabit every muscle, haunt every thought?

“The first few years after she left, I’d wake happy, looking forward to the day only to remember…” Lucifer inhales, then looks up, all sheepish. “I’m getting maudlin, there’s no way you’re interested in my miserable love life.”

Alastor is, in fact, incredibly interested, but not for the reasons Lucifer assumes. This is a chink in the armor that someone could easily crawl into and make a nest for themselves in.

“You’d be entirely unsurprised to learn that I can’t entirely empathize with that, seeing how I’ve never been married or produced offspring, but… I am in possession of a perfectly functioning pair of ears. If you wish to share, I am here.”

“Hah,” Lucifer said wryly. “That’s surprisingly decent of you. Thanks.”

“So this is why you didn’t wish to share it with Charlie – it would sadden her.”

“Obviously,” Lucifer snorts. “She got abandoned too, and I’m not cruel enough to bring it up.”

Abandoned. What a telling word.

“I see,” Alastor says simply.

“I caused her so much pain by being absent, right at the time she needed me the most, and I don’t wish to add to that.”

“Understandable,” Alastor serves up the platitude.

Vivaldi’s Sping lapses and Alastor seamlessly transitions it into Tchaikovsky. The mellowness seems right up Lucifer’s alley.

The lord of all Hell startles in his seat. “Is that… Swan Lake?”

“It is indeed. I can change it if you dislike it?”

“No, it’s one of my favorites! I haven’t heard it in over a century!”

 “Ah, how splendid.”

Alastor watches Lucifer thaw in front of him in real time, happily humming along with the waltz.

Inspiration strikes and Alastor capitalizes on it immediately.

“When was the last time you danced?”

Chapter Text

Lucifer blinks owlishly at him, clearly perplexed by the question. “When have I last danced? You mean…with another person?”

Alastor refrains from rolling his eyes, if only barely. “Yes, that was what I asked.”

“Uhh,” Lucifer ponders, and the cogs are visibly turning his head as he uses his fingers to try and count, but gives it up. “Ugh, I’m not sure. Decades?”

“Would you like to?” Alastor asks neutrally.

Lucifer’s pale complexion turns rosy. “You’re asking me to dance?”

“Why the surprise? We have a perfectly serviceable waltz playing.”

“Who’d lead?” Lucifer asks. “I mean, we’re both, you know...” Lucifer waves his hand between them in a flowery gesture.

“I’m taller?” Alastor offers and tries not to wince at the image of Lucifer trying to lead, what with his diminutive stature and all, it would be positively grotesque.

Lucifer appears to be thinking it over and Alastor decides to sweeten the deal.

“Dancing is a more pleasant way to pass the time than reminiscing about depressing things, surely?”

Then, he elegantly gets out of his chair, steps around the table and offers Lucifer a polite bow. He extends his hand, the question unspoken and unnecessary.

Lucifer squints up at him. “You’re not allowed to berate me if I accidentally step on your toes.”

“I will try my best.” Alastor says, mildly ticked by being forced to stay in the same pose. He nudges the proceedings along. “So, what do you say?”

Lucifer is still looking a bit wary, but then huffs out: “Fine, what’s the worst that can happen?”

Alastor helps Lucifer up with a gentle pull of his hand and notices Lucifer is no longer as short as he remembers. Before he can ascertain what’s responsible for this unexpected growth spurt, Lucifer volunteers the information.

“Added taller heels. Otherwise this would be an absolute travesty.” Lucifer says nonchalantly, but his expression is very much one of ‘I-fucking-dare-you-to-say-anything’.

Alastor laughs delightedly and places his hand just below Lucifer’s shoulder blades, as any lower and he’d be forced to stoop and that would be poor form.

“Why are you so stupidly tall?” Lucifer grumbles.

“Is that jealousy I detect?”

In lieu of an answer, Lucifer promptly kicks him in the shin. It smarts just enough for Alastor to bite his tongue.

“Point taken,” he concedes. “Shall we?”

Lucifer’s hand hovers uncertainly around his waist and he stops. “Wait, I thought you hated being touched?”

“Dancing is the exception; it’s hard to do the moves unless proper form is observed.”

“Fair enough,” Lucifer agrees easily enough and places his hand on Alastor’s waist, who accepts this impropriety of placement with grace – it’s not like the height difference can be helped.

To his credit, Lucifer follows his lead with surprising ease, considering the rather vigorous tempo. Perhaps a slower waltz would have been more suitable for Alastor’s purposes, but he’s rather proud of himself that his little ploy worked at all. There’s no fumbling, not a single time does Lucifer step on his toes – it’s all remarkably well executed, to the point that Alastor feels a small thrill of pleasure whisper across his nerve-endings. Dancing has always been a favorite pastime of his while he was alive, even if he did prefer tap dancing, where he didn’t need to touch anyone else, but needs must. And the expression on Lucifer’s face morphs from one of focus into one of enjoyment, exhilaration even, and Alastor senses a niggling temptation coiling around his spine.

No, that would be premature.

But the feeling lingers, insidious and insistent. The pleasure on Lucifer’s face, that ease in his body, Alastor put it there.

And the sinuous slant of Lucifer’s neck, extended as it should be, makes Alastor’s mouth water. He’s sampled angelic blood before, but it had tasted off; perhaps it spoiled after being dead for too long? Lucifer’s blood, however… that had the high probability of being a delicacy of the highest degree.

As the melody swells, Alastor executes a series of twirls and lifts, Lucifer’s body supple and perfectly pliant in his grasp. The static crackles over the charged atmosphere. Lucifer laughs, bright and free, and Alastor can see plainly where Charlie’s got her sense of wonder from, painted in luminous strokes along every line of Lucifer’s lithe form.

They are nearing the end, only a couple of bars left - Alastor lifts Lucifer with ease and spins him around in a full circle, Lucifer looking him in the eyes, breathless and thrilled; his warm body pressed firmly into Alastor. Lucifer fits perfectly, like a gazelle getting the life choked out of it by a boa constrictor. As the final notes echo in a glorious crescendo, Alastor brings Lucifer into a dip so low his angelic locks sweep the floor.

Lucifer is gasping for breath, giddy and elated, and Alastor is faced with the creamy expanse of that swan-white neck and all but buries his nose in it as if drugged. He can feel the warm pulsing of hot golden blood right beneath the surface, and this close, Lucifer smells like apple compote and cinnamon, just like the one his mother used to make. He detested the taste of it, but the smell had always been comforting. His maman was a wonderfully nurturing woman. That’s why, at the age of 15, Alastor buried an axe in his father’s spine. As a perfect mother, she helped him bury the corpse and never mentioned it again. Truly the epitome of motherly love!

“Uhh, you ok there?” Lucifer asks, breaking the spell.

Alastor promptly raises them back into an upright position, betrayed only by the forward slant of his errant neck. The blood is singing in his veins, but he shushes its siren call.

“My apologies, the music always transports me…” Alastor trails off, because Lucifer is looking at him like he’s something safe, and the absurdity of it sends a delicious thrill skittering down his spine. Lucifer’s gaze flits down to Alastor’s ever-smiling mouth and… surely not.

It cannot be this easy, can it?

But when will such an opportunity arise again?

With Lucifer who is lonely, grieved by the loss of his wife, exhausted by the act of healing and mollified by the thrill of a well-executed dance… the puzzle pieces align in front of Alastor’s eyes like a perfect celestial conjunction. The snare has been set and all that’s left to do now is to walk his prey into it with a gentle guiding hand. Alastor’s hand creeps up to cradle Lucifer’s neck, his touch feather-soft.

As Act One Finale plays like a benediction in the background, Alastor leans down, drawing out the moment with a lingering look into Lucifer’s hesitant eyes and kisses him, careful to keep it light, hoping the miscalculation won’t cost him his life. It’s soft, and the scent of tender, overcooked apple is almost unbearable, but he perseveres. For a long moment, Lucifer is unresponsive, subjected to Alastor’s sudden move, likely too shocked to respond with smiting (or anything else for that matter). The harp tingles in the air, oboes emerging delicately like snowdrops; the shimmer of violins stirs up and as the tympanis, bassoons and tubas crash against them, the clouds break - Lucifer melts into him, lips parting on a sigh.

In triumph, Alastor presses closer; right hand splaying across the small of Lucifer’s back, and left still grasping that sinfully soft neck. Emboldened, Alastor presses the advantage. It’s unfamiliar, and viscerally uncomfortable, and he isn’t sure whether his technique passes muster, but Lucifer’s eyes flutter closed, hands fisting the lapels of Alastor’s coat – far as he can tell, Lucifer seems to be quite a willing participant in the proceedings.

A plaintive noise dies in Lucifer’s throat and his hips roll forward in what Alastor assumes to be an involuntary gesture. Ordinarily, Alastor would convulse with revulsion at the feel of another’s erection brushing against his stomach, but through the corset, shirt, and coat, it isn’t that bad. In fact, if he focuses on the positives – namely, that Lucifer is enjoying being played as a fiddle – Alastor brims with satisfaction.

He hums into the kiss, a throaty expression of greed, and it makes Lucifer moan.

Alastor gasps when confronted with the entirely unexpected tightening in his breeches. He looks down in shock. That has last happened when he was… how old was he again? Sixteen? He can’t even remember.

Lucifer is looking at him, wide-eyed and flushed, lips swollen and glossy. At a loss for words, Lucifer blinks and follows Alastor’s gaze. “Oh.”

Before he can think better of it, the truth spills out of Alastor : “Well, that’s new.”

“I thought…you didn’t swing that way?” Lucifer wonders aloud, as meek as a lamb.

Alastor frowns. “I don’t really swing any way.”

Lucifer stammers: “Th-that’s what I meant. That you don’t really…”

“What?” Alastor snaps.

“I mean, lust isn’t exactly your sin, is it? You’re more of a pride and gluttony combo from what I’ve gathered.”

Alastor remains mute. It’s true. Lust isn’t really his thing at all. Never has been. Then again, when was the last time he had the opportunity to have a fallen Seraphim under his heel? He supposes that it would have to be something of that magnitude to get his cock interested in the proceedings.

“This has never happened before. I’m as baffled as you are.”

“Uhm, may I ask you something?” Lucifer inquires, still lingering in Alastor’s personal space. He’s at least let go of his lapels and they don’t seem too worse for wear.

“If you must.” Alastor says benevolently.

“Why did you kiss me?”

Alastor narrows his eyes at him. When would be the right time to tell the ruler of Hell that he wants to rip out his jugular and use his neck as a water fountain?

“Because I wanted to?” Alastor shrugs, his erection stubbornly unflagging as if to mock him.

“But…why?” Lucifer insists, adorably confused. “You hate me.”

“Hate?” Alastor tastes the word. It’s a strong word, reserved for his father and various other people he had killed above ground. Lucifer, on the other hand, evokes something more akin to pity, coupled with extreme annoyance. “No, I don’t hate you. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt genuine hate for more than a second at a time.”

What a novelty it is to be honest! He must applaud Lucifer for getting even this much out of him.

“Is it boredom?” Lucifer asks, and then his expression flattens. “You were bored.”

“No,” Alastor insists, lifting Lucifer’s chin with a gloved finger. “I was intrigued. And that is no easy feat, I assure you.”

“Should I be flattered that a psychopathic murderer gets hard at the sight of me?”

“You’re in hell!” Alastor exclaims theatrically. “It’s not like you haven’t seen worse.”

Lucifer ponders that for a moment, and then shrugs. “True.”

“Now, the question is, what are we intending to do about this development?” Alastor drawls, deeply irritated.

“We? Since when is that a thing?”

“You’re the one responsible for it.” Alastor points out.

“Oh, I’m responsible? And not you, using Swan Lake against me? Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you skipped the entirety of Act One just to set the mood!”

“I don’t recall you complaining much. Or at all, if memory serves.”

“So what, you did all this to fuck me?”

“Is it working?” Alastor smirks.

Lucifer snorts. “The fucking audacity of you… not with that attitude!”

“What kind of attitude do you wish me to adopt?” Alastor looks down at Lucifer, puzzled. “This isn’t usually my thing, remember?”

“It’s not your thing, but you want to fuck me?” The incredulity is positively dripping from Lucifer’s face.

Alastor parrots mockingly: “Not with that attitude.”

Lucifer kicks him in the other shin this time. Alastor bares his fangs with a snarl.

“Tell me what you actually want, you lying bastard. Otherwise it’s not happening. Ever.”

Negotiations! Lovely. Alastor can work with that. Lucifer seems receptive, if cautious. Alastor runs the gamut of tactics and lands on brazen. He does so enjoy pushing people’s buttons – and oh boy, does Lucifer have many of those!

“I want you on your back–” Alastor drawls, “–mewling for me.”

Lucifer tears his eyes away, mutters an emphatic ‘shit’, and proceeds to adjust himself in his pristine white trousers as he steps away. Then he turns back to Alastor from half the room away and levels an accusatory finger at him. “Don’t flatter yourself; I’ve been celibate for most of Charlie’s life. That’s a pretty long time, ok?”

“That would be, what - a few decades?”

Lucifer explodes in a minor fireball, horns flaring out of his head. “A few centuries, asshole! Over two hundred years!”

Dear Charlie is over two hundred? She doesn’t act a day over sixteen, most days.

“That doesn’t sound too bad, compared to eons.”

Lucifer’s fingers turn to claws. “It is when the woman you love doesn’t want to even look at you!”

“Ah.”

Lucifer crumples onto the sofa, defeated.

“Is that why you keep her leash?” Alastor asks off-handedly.

Lucifer’s eyes turn comically wide. “How did you–“

Touché.

“Lucky guess. Seemed like her color.”

“And how would you know what color that would be?” Lucifer asks, suspicious.

“Judging by the plethora of portraits you have hanging right there, that shade of purple seemed to fit.”

“Oh.” Lucifer accepts that at face value. How fortunate.

“Don’t you ever think about what she could be getting up to, out there?”

Lucifer rubs a hand over his face. “I try not to, thanks.”

“Are you intending on staying celibate until she returns?”

Lucifer’s chin wobbles. “She won’t.”

“What was that?” Alastor pretends not to have heard.

“I said she’s not coming back!” Lucifer yells out. “She’s the most stubborn and prideful being I know, there’s no way she would ever have me back, not after centuries of resentment.”

Ah, so – a subpar husband on top of being an absent parent.

“Do you think she’s staying faithful?” Alastor needles.

Lucifer’s eyes flash red – “You disrespect my wife one more time and I will rip your spine out and make bone broth out of it.”

“Now, now, no need for violence. I was merely saying–“

Lucifer flies off the couch (and off the handle, apparently) and the next thing he knows, Alastor finds himself pinned against the tabletop, the fine china shattering all over the floor, coffee sloshing out of the carafe as it spins across the room.

“You were merely trying to manipulate me into sleeping with you. Do I need to muzzle you, Alastor?” Those tiny fingers hurt as they dig into Alastor’s neck, and to his embarrassment, his lower half remains undeterred by the rough treatment. “I should fuck you, consent be damned. Is that what you want?” Lucifer asks silkily.

It isn’t. It really, really isn’t. Alastor isn’t above leveraging what is his, but having it taken away?  Utterly unacceptable.

“I’m not sure either of us would find that pleasurable.”

“And what do you find pleasurable, you warped fuck?” Lucifer asks sweetly, his tone at odds with the promise of murder in his eyes. Lucifer proceeds to grind against Alastor’s crotch and smirks at the poorly disguised sneer of revulsion he gets for it.

Judging by past experience, Lucifer reacts the best to honesty, or at least the closest thing to it that Alastor can manage.

“I want to taste your blood,” he admits.

Lucifer frowns, his grip easing marginally. Then he laughs. “Gluttony! Ha! I should have known. What else?”

Terms. He wants to hear terms. Alastor can play ball. He pitches his voice as low and as suggestive as it can go.

“I want to bite you…mark you…and fuck you until you whimper. How does that sound?”

“Sounds nice…” Lucifer murmurs slyly. “But what’s in it for me?”

Fair point. Alastor knows he would disproportionately benefit from this, so a minor concession is in order.

“A prolonged arrangement. Whenever you feel…lonely? ; let’s go with lonely, all you need is let me know, and I will entertain you for the evening.”

“You? Who has never lain with anyone in his life?” Lucifer mocks.

Alastor licks his lips, undeterred. “I’m a fast learner.”

Lucifer snorts.

“Two minutes.” Alastor offers, materializing a small hourglass in the palm of his hand.

“Two minutes to do what?” Lucifer asks, but takes his hand off of Alastor’s neck, which he takes as encouragement to continue.

“I get two minutes to present my case.”

“And after they’ve lapsed?” Lucifer inquires.

“You get to give me your response. A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

“Yes to being fucked by you right now? Or at a time of my choosing?”

“Whenever you choose.”

“That’s a bit more fair–” Lucifer ponders, “–but the scales aren’t balanced yet.”

“What do you propose, then?”

Lucifer looks down at him like he wants to devour him and murmurs in a honeyed voice: “Answer a question for me, truthfully.”

Alastor isn’t stupid enough to agree to such a thing without safeguards in place. “Under one condition.”

“Name it.”

“That you aren’t allowed to kill me for it.”

Lucifer laughs and licks the tip of Alastor’s nose in a clearly mocking gesture. “Fine,” Lucifer accedes. “As long as you answer my question truthfully, I won’t kill you.”

“Not now or in the future,” Alastor amends.

“Greedy thing.” Lucifer smiles at him, almost fondly. “Have it your way.”

“We’re in agreement, then?”

“You get two minutes to present your case after I’ve received a truthful answer to a single question I am about to pose.”

Alastor’s eyes turn to dials with an ominous crackle of static. So close–

“Deal,” Alastor exclaims, the static hissing loudly.

Instead of offering his hand, Lucifer leans in and kisses him to seal the pact, golden energy invading the virulent green. Lucifer is stronger, he is. But Alastor is smarter.

Lucifer unglues himself from Alastor’s mouth, lips glistening almost ominously.

Alastor clears his throat. “Your question?”

Lucifer settles his full weight on top of Alastor and proceeds to play with his bowtie. Up close, his breath smells like coffee, bitter and heady.

“Do you wish to harm my daughter in any way?”

The compulsion swims through Alastor’s bloodstream, tickling the back of his neck.

“No,” he answers truthfully, unable to moderate his response, “as she poses absolutely no threat to me.”

Lucifer observes him in silence as if searching for the lie. Luckily for him, there is no lie. Alastor genuinely sees no reason to harm Charlie Morningstar. Not when he can get more out of her father, provided he plays his cards right.

Lucifer slides off him and goes to sit on the couch.

“Your two minutes start–“ A snap of jet-black fingers. “Now.”

Chapter Text

The moment Lucifer’s fingers snap, the summoned hourglass lands on the table in a shimmer of golden light and the fine crimson sand begins to trickle out. Alastor focuses his gaze on Lucifer, who is lounging on the couch like he owns it.

Ah well, he does, at that.

The least Alastor can do is to thoroughly ruin it. He stalks towards Lucifer, who looks entirely too amused for Alastor’s liking.

N̴͈̻̓̿̔o̶̡̞͒̆͝t̵͈̱̒ ̶̯̊̓f̷͔͚͓̎̎ȏ̷̻͆ȑ̸͔̯̜ ̶̬͉͖̈l̴̛͓͓̹̀o̴̖̤̹͝ñ̷͓͜g̷̻͒͝.̸̘̄͆

Alastor stops in front of Lucifer and looms.

“You just can’t let go of any perceived advantage, can you?”

“Not my style,” Alastor purrs.

Lucifer chuckles. Alastor allows the atmosphere around him to warp until it’s tinged with darkness and arcane symbols. One day, he’s going to fill this room with so much of his eldritch power that they’ll see it on the other side of Pentagram City, but for now, he conjures his staff instead.

“That’s way less impressive than you think it is.” Lucifer smirks up at him, bare throat exposed.

Alastor hums in pleasure and uses his staff to spread Lucifer’s legs. At last, that has an effect.

“A minute and a half left,” Lucifer recovers.

“Plenty to deal with you,” Alastor says confidently.

“Is it?” Lucifer grins at him lazily. “What are you going to do to me, oh scary radio sinner man?”

The mocking tone hits Alastor precisely where it shouldn’t – his ego. He has risen above all other sinners, and the reminder of his inferiority in regards to the power differential between them chafes.

Alastor extends his hand and drags his fingers through Lucifer’s lush hair, and the fallen angel allows it, showing no outward reaction save amusement. Alastor scratches down his scalp with deliberate slowness and then, just as Lucifer is starting to go half-lidded, Alastor pulls on the fistful of silky golden hair. With a gasp, Lucifer’s pretty neck extends and Alastor leans in to murmur in his ear, soft as sin and full of promise: “I will ruin you.” Lucifer moans underneath him and Alastor takes the opportunity to lick a long stripe down that pearly-white neck. The resulting shiver emboldens him to blow a breath across the sensitive flesh: “And you’re going to like it.”

Lucifer makes a strangled noise in his throat and Alastor takes his pretty little face between his fingers. “When was the last time you properly surrendered to anyone?”

Lucifer doesn’t answer, but his body has gone rigid, along with the unmentionable part of his anatomy. Alastor can tell that Lucifer is teetering on the edge and gives him the coup de grace.

“You are perfectly well aware that I always keep my promises?” Alastor states with his head at full tilt. Lucifer twitches, and that’s when the dark tendrils of his shadow crawl up along the inside of Lucifer’s spread legs, climbing like sinuous vines along his sides and then retreating down his chest, all the way down to where his navel should be were he born human.

A tiny chime goes off behind him, but he keeps his eyes trained on Lucifer instead.

“Wouldn’t you know it; I’m out of time – what a shame.”

Lucifer’s rapid breaths are supremely satisfying, almost as much as the cries of the damned airing on one of Alastor’s broadcasts. Alastor moves in closer, teasing the prospect of a kiss, only to move away when Lucifer attempts to close the distance.

“Ah, ah, ah! Not so fast, my king.” Alastor grins, Lucifer writhing below him, already the perfect picture of willingness. “I require an answer. Will it be yes? Or no?”

Lucifer’s gaze is defiant, but that’s also the only part of him still putting up a resistance.

“Fuck you,” Lucifer growls at him, and Alastor wonders whether that’s some delectable humiliation that the Lord of Hell is experiencing right now.

“You first,” Alastor says sweetly, his shadow tendrils caressing Lucifer’s body.

“That’s cheating,” Lucifer feebly protests.

“The use of additional limbs was not specified; perhaps you should have included that in the terms before leveling accusations at my feet?”

“You’re getting off on this,” Lucifer points out, entirely unhelpfully in Alastor’s humble opinion.

The tendrils slither down the creases of Lucifer’s crotch and he cries out, biting his lip to try and muffle the eager noises spilling from his (as of yet) unblemished throat, but the only thing he manages to accomplish is to split his lower lip open.

“Your answer?” Alastor murmurs silkily, running a hand through Lucifer’s soft hair and reveling at the fact that the angel simply can’t help how expressive he is. Alastor startles to realize he hasn’t been bored for a single second these past few hours. Such untapped potential for amusement! His future spreads before him, glorious and filled with Lucifer’s debasement. Such a prize is definitely worth ridding himself of his virginity, which remains a lamentable weakness. Two birds with one stone.

Lucifer breathes out, back arching when one of the shadow tendrils flickers across his tented trousers.

“We could always wait until those seams give way, instead?” Alastor suggests, deeply enjoying himself.

Lucifer gives him a baleful look that promises something unmentionably dark, before muttering: “I better give my answer before you ruin my favorite pair of pants.”

Alastor can’t help but stare at the droplet of golden blood hanging suspended from the cut in Lucifer’s lip, ripe for the taking.

“Mhm, that might be wise. Wouldn’t want to be responsible for a sartorial catastrophe.”

But Lucifer doesn’t immediately respond and Alastor opts to take the decision out of his hands altogether. Acting on impulse, Alastor stows away his staff, and pulls the glove off his right hand. Lucifer’s stares at the spectacle as if he knows how special he is to be afforded the privilege of seeing Alastor’s bare skin. It’s been a while since he’s shown it to anyone, living or dead. He uses the grey knuckles to trail down Lucifer’s cheek in mockery of an affectionate gesture, savoring the way Lucifer’s lips become loose, releasing a delicious little moan. Unable to resist his hunger any longer, Alastor toys with the tips of Lucifer’s sinfully smooth locks and murmurs: “So soft… Are your secret places equally soft?”

Lucifer gulps and averts his eyes, and Alastor descends on him, licking at the droplet of molten gold. He swipes it away delicately, and Lucifer hisses at the sting. Alastor tastes it and gasps, his pupils blowing out against his will, and his hand grasps blindly for the backrest, fabric tearing under his claws, stuffing spilling out of the large gash.

It tastes like…

All at once, he can see the creation of the universe – primordial gasses condensing and exploding outwards in every direction, spewing the building blocks for all of creation into the farthest reaches of the endless black void – stars coalescing and forming out of the chaos and igniting in the night sky one by one. He stares at the ceiling, unseeing as the comets whiz by only to burn up in the atmosphere and turn to dust. Microscopic creatures squirm in the warm cradle of primordial ooze and an ecstatic gasp is torn from his mouth as he realizes what true power tastes like. Not just the kind that destroys, but the one that creates life itself.

He lowers his gaze back to Lucifer, who is looking all kinds of tormented underneath him. Before he can offer any kind of dubious commentary, Alastor’s voice echoes as if hundreds of him were speaking in unison: “What a marvel you are, Lucifer Morningstar.” Having said his piece, Alastor crashes into Lucifer’s mouth, all teeth and no care. The gently bleeding lips open for him and Alastor licks into another’s mouth for the first time since his death. Lucifer’s hands touch his neck, tangle in his hair, and Alastor doesn’t care. He chases the life-giving blood and savors it like nothing before.

He wants to crawl up inside Lucifer and be reborn as something stronger. Alastor moans into Lucifer’s mouth, insensate and breathless, and the static crackles between them while the radio is blaring the penultimate movement from Act Four of Swan Lake, the violins Lucifer loves so much frenetically ushering in the climax and Alastor tears himself away from Lucifer’s bruised lips with more reluctance than he knows what to do with.

“What do you want?” He asks, utterly wrecked and taut like a string about to snap in half.

“You, curse you –“ Lucifer cries out, his voice resentful and broken. “I want you!”

As the percussion is swelling, Alastor’s voice echoes endlessly inside the room, ricocheting off of the walls and making Lucifer shiver. “Yes?” Reality glitches and bends around them, Alastor’s crimson eyes glowing in the forceful dark. “Or no?”

Lucifer sobs – “Yes, fuck you, it’s YES!”

Alastor groans, antlers sprouting from his head and invading the entirety of Lucifer’s room. One of his tendrils snaps at his command, snatching the wrist of Lucifer’s left hand and dragging his hand southward, until it’s resting across Alastor’s clothed erection.

“Do you see what you’re doing to me, you miserable wretch?”

Lucifer’s fingers twitch, but the hesitation in his eyes speaks volumes.

“Oh, this is not the time to worry about that, darling. I will fill you with this as soon as I rip off those impeccably tailored clothes of yours. Any complaints?” Alastor asks imperiously, his joints popping ominously as he stares down his prey.

Lucifer licks at his abused lip and shakes his head, his voice reedy and utterly wrecked:

“This is madness…”

A stag bellow rends the air, above the static and the music, and Alastor cups Lucifer’s cheek with his bare fingers, trailing a delicate scratch down the supple flesh.

“There’s room for two here.” Alastor laughs, high-pitched in utter delight.

Lucifer tears at his tie with a feverish gleam in his eyes, a trickle of blood sliding down his chin like a raindrop across a windowpane.

“So be it.”

Reality warps before his eyes at the capitulation - Alastor has won.

Chapter Text

Alastor’s crimson eyes gleam in the darkness, focused solely on the King of Hell, who is sitting on the couch underneath him, hastily and none too gently stripping out of his vestments – the bowtie has been discarded and is currently lying on the floor, the pink striped waistcoat is being shrugged out of and it’s approximately there that Alastor runs out of patience for the strip show.

His ungloved hand claws a gentle trail down Lucifer’s neck, eliciting a full body shudder, and a yelp as Alastor’s downward path cuts Lucifer’s shirt to shreds. Golden lines bloom across Lucifer’s chest and Alastor feels a curiously satisfying throb in his nether regions.

“Ow, that hurts, you asshole!” Lucifer reprimands him.

“You were taking too long,” Alastor responds and rips the rest of Lucifer’s shirt apart until his chest and stomach are fully exposed, the two halves of the shirt hanging like ripped curtains off of Lucifer’s shoulders.

“You gave me all of thee seconds to strip, what do you expect? I wanna see you strip that fast, you smug fuck!”

“You could have used magic?” Alastor suggests. “Aw, too late now.” With that said, his shadow tendrils gently sweep the remnants of Lucifer’s pristine white shirt down his shoulders, leaving it draped artistically over his black sleeve garters. Alastor makes a rumbling noise of approval deep in his throat and says: “You look good like this.”

Lucifer’s disgruntlement with the injury fades away and is replaced with an innocent look of confusion.

Ah, could he be weak to compliments? Alastor files that for later use.

“I want to kiss you.” Alastor states bluntly. It is actually the blood he’s desperate to lick off, but Lucifer doesn’t need to know that.

“Oh, now you’re asking for permission?” Lucifer looks up at him, incredulous.

“It wasn’t a request for permission, merely a declaration of intent.” And before Lucifer can say no, Alastor uses both hands to grasp Lucifer’s neck and pulls him up high enough for Lucifer to be uncomfortable in the position, and then licks the trail of molten gold from the tip of his chin to the cut marring Lucifer’s lower lip. Stars burn up in a distant galaxy and Alastor kisses Lucifer, chasing the high as a swooping feeling envelops his body – it feels like flying, or perhaps falling from a height so great that one cannot see the rocks on the bottom one could be dashed against. He supposes this is something akin to what Icarus must have felt as he lost the battle with gravity.

Lucifer’s forked tongue tangles with Alastor’s, and the faint taste of bitter coffee feels good, so good that Alastor keeps it up. Over a century of life and undeath and Alastor had never understood why people sought out such a primitive, unhygienic pursuit; surely there was no angelic ambrosia to be found in their mouths. Not like Lucifer’s…no. Nothing quite compares. And the sweet, near-strangled noises coming from the King of all Hell, surrendering to the kiss with needy desperation…nothing quite compares to that, either.

The last notes of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake vibrate in the air and with a mere thought, the station changes with a burst of static, another vigorous waltz filling the room. He’s in the mood for something suitable to the occasion. After all, it isn’t every day that one gets to fuck a fallen angel, who is also incidentally the most powerful being in all of Hell.

When the kiss eventually breaks, Lucifer laughs.

“Masquerade Suite, really?”

“You don’t appreciate Khachaturian? What a heathen.”

Lucifer barks out a laugh and gives him a fetching look through half-lidded eyes.“I never said that.”

“Shut up and undress for me.” Alastor commands as he releases Lucifer.

“You’re such a contrary bastard, you know that?”

“On the contrary, my parents were married, now be a good boy and do what I said, or those pants are going to get it.”

“Promises, promises,” Lucifer teases him back with an unrepentant grin and it’s…pleasant. It wouldn’t be nearly as fun if he didn’t fight back. A win after a struggle is the most satisfying kind of win, after all.

A thrill cascades down Alastor’s spine at the sight of his order being obeyed. The coyness is amusing at least; is Lucifer actually trying to seduce him? How droll. Still, who is Alastor to stop him? Black fingers unbutton the fly but fumble halfway through and Lucifer’s cheeks color, but he doesn’t stop, clearly intent to impress. Or perhaps too stubborn to quit? Either way is fine by Alastor.

Lucifer shimmies out of his trousers to the sound of swooping violins and vivacious trumpets, only to curse when he runs into the obstacle his knee-high boots present (still high-heeled, to Alastor’s amusement).

“Pink undergarments?” Alastor chuckles at the rose-colored pinstripe boxers.

“Hey, they match my waistcoat! It’s not like I expected anyone to see them…” Lucifer rebukes him, clearly affronted and likely a touch embarrassed as well, judging by the fact his face has turned a shade of pink to match. “Now, are you going to help me remove my boots, or are you gonna stand there looking all smug until I call this whole thing off?”

“That threat would be more effective if this–“ Alastor points to Lucifer’s crotch,” –didn’t look like a pitched circus tent.”

Lucifer sputters, deeply offended. “Why do you have to be such a bitch?”

“Why do you have to waste my time?” Alastor says silkily, voice low.

“Hey – you’re the one who can’t help but argue every single point!”

“And you’re the one who fights back so eloquently,” Alastor all but purrs as he trails a hand down Lucifer’s exposed chest, bare fingers smearing through the trail of angelic blood that has yet to congeal. Here they are, engaging in a spot of pleasant banter and Alastor wonders whether he’s the first creature to ever physically wound Lucifer; well, at least after his fall. The thought makes him swell up with self-satisfaction (while his lower half swells with something else).

Lucifer’s eyes are burning with something Alastor fails to decipher.

“It would be a pity to let this go to waste, don’t you think?” Alastor tilts his head and wiggles his gold-stained fingers for a spell before bringing them closer to his mouth. Lucifer stares at him, utterly transfixed, following each minute movement of Alastor’s tongue as he laps up the precious liquid.

The hit is immediate and his eyes roll back, a pleasured groan cutting through the music as he’s caught in the carousel of a black hole’s event horizon, swirling around its perimeter as the cosmic force sucks him in, tenderly and inexorably; and it doesn’t hurt at all as he plunges into oblivion, dissolving into nothing. Is this what sex is supposed to feel like? So…all-consuming and–

Something cracks and gives way, the world tilting by a few degrees. Lucifer yelps and when Alastor comes to, he realizes he has reached the full extent of his demonic form, and that the couch is curiously gone off-kilter, the legs on the right side having given way under his eldritch mass.

“Did you seriously just destroy my couch?!” Lucifer cries out, so endearingly outraged about such a minor thing that Alastor can’t help but laugh as he pulls himself back into his everyday form.

Ordinarily, Alastor would respond with something along the lines of: “Why? Does it have sentimental value?” but not right now, while he can still taste gravity in his mouth – oh how inconsequential and nonsensical that would be when Lucifer is laid out for him, petulant and indignant like a huffy maiden angry with her suitor for getting her the wrong kind of flowers. 

The couch isn’t going to be the only thing destroyed tonight, Alastor vows in the privacy of his mind.

Alastor’s shadow tendrils snap up and wrap around Lucifer’s wrists, pinning both together above his head which forces Lucifer into a lying position, his back arching gracefully for Alastor’s viewing pleasure. All that sinuous grace, all that supple skin… Lucifer is, actually, quite beautiful like this. Like a perfect renaissance sculpture of the Madonna, except fallen from grace and about to be irrevocably despoiled.

Alastor yanks the crumpled white fabric of Lucifer’s pants lower and tears apart the seam where they are joined; leaving Lucifer looking like his thigh-high stockings had their garter strings cut. Lucifer is breathing heavily, and for once, blissfully absent of verbal commentary. His eyes smolder like molten gold in the dimness of the room and his lips are parted – what a picture-perfect caption of expectation he makes!

Not one to disappoint, Alastor gently trails both hands, one gloved and one not, down Lucifer’s neck, brushing the outline of his clavicles as he goes, lower and lower on his journey, taking the scenic route past the toned, quivering skin covering Lucifer’s stomach, and then caressing the small jut of hipbones sticking out of perfect porcelain skin.

Lucifer undulates beneath him, eager for the touches Alastor bestows, eyes alight and attentive. Alastor hooks his fingers into the waistband of Lucifer’s boxers and excruciatingly slowly slides them off Lucifer’s erection. Down Lucifer’s silky soft legs they go, past the leather of his shiny high-heeled boots and finally off, to be thrown into the general direction of the room. Lucifer strains upwards, desperate for the fleeting touches Alastor spares him.

“The boots can stay,” Alastor murmurs benevolently, “they suit you.”

Lucifer straight up groans, his hips canting upwards.

Alastor throbs in his trousers at the sight of Lucifer Morningstar, bared and desperate for the touch of a consummate sinner. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, without knowing there are miles and miles more to go…

Then, primly and meticulously, Alastor unfastens his pants, pulling his underwear down along with them, just enough not to get in the way of what must be done. His manhood springs free, over-sensitized as it’s exposed to the air.

“Uh, you’re NOT putting that in me without lube and prep,” Lucifer says firmly.

“Do it yourself,” Alastor says dismissively.

“My hands are tied!” Lucifer growls at him. “Literally!”

“All that power at your disposal and you can’t even summon lubricant?”

Lucifer glares at him; mouth pressed in a thin line, then performs a little twirl with the fingers of his right hand and moans, seemingly despite himself. Alastor notices the faintest shimmer of golden smoke evaporating from between Lucifer’s legs.

Alastor gently pries Lucifer’s legs open, fingers lingering on the smooth skin of his thighs, as soft as sin; as night; as peaceful death. He kneels and looms, keenly observing Lucifer’s every twitch, every suppressed moan; every eager roll of his hips.

The other pair of his tendrils snake underneath Lucifer’s arched back and lift him off the couch, leaving him suspended exactly where he wants him. Alastor doesn’t break eye-contact for a single second, soaking up the moment when it dawns on Lucifer exactly what is coming. Alastor spreads Lucifer’s cheeks and lines himself up.

“Go slow, plea–AH!” Lucifer cries out as Alastor’s hips snap up sharply.

The heat in indescribable – like putting your hand over a flame and lingering for a fraction too long – leaving your skin blistering red and too tight. It’s visceral, and painful, and Alastor feels it in the marrow of his bones. When his eyes open, Lucifer’s brows are furrowed, face scrunched up and teeth grit. Perhaps this pain is shared? Needing something unquantifiably more, Alastor starts to move.

Lucifer lets out an anguished scream that transforms into a dissolute moan within a few rolls of Alastor’s hips. The musicality of it makes something in Alastor unfurl, like the flexing of a muscle after a limb has gone asleep; turgid and tingly.

“Still want it slow, Your Majesty?” Alastor asks, his hair curtained around his face when he leans in to peer at Lucifer’s trembling mouth.

Lucifer’s gaze is defiant and luminous. “If you stop, I am going to kill you.”

Alastor laughs. “You can’t kill me, remember?”

Oh, the priceless look of realization on Lucifer’s face is everything he ever wanted and more.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Alastor croons, “I will give you exactly what you deserve.”

With that, Alastor caresses Lucifer’s cheek and gives him a gentle, lingering kiss. Lucifer’s tense body unclenches and turns pliant. Alastor’s mouth fills with punched-out, lewd little noises, each one more delicious than the next. Lucifer’s surrender is so sweet that Alastor craves more of it, wondering what other ways he could accomplish it and fails to realize what the tightening in his nether region means before he climaxes inside Lucifer with an agonized whine. For a span of two heartbeats, two pulses, and a single breath; his mind is entirely blank.

“Ungh, Alastor, I’m so close,” Lucifer whines.

With a dazed blink, still buried to the hilt, Alastor asks: “Close to what?”

“Close to orgasm, you selfish prick!”

“Ah,” Alastor acknowledges. “We cannot have that, can we?” And if his words are a bit slurred, no matter. He pulls Lucifer forcefully back onto himself, Alastor’s fingers bruising the immaculate skin of his hips. Alastor holds him there, spine extended and gasping for breath as an enterprising tendril slithers around Lucifer’s hardness, coiling around it like a serpent around a slender apple tree. A breath, a gasp and three heart-beats later, Lucifer’s strident moan fills the room as he spills all over his taut stomach.

Alastor smiles – he always keeps his promises – especially the ones he makes with himself.

Chapter Text

Alastor basks for a moment longer, still sheathed deep, but the haze he’s been under is already dissipating. He doesn’t even really notice the spurious physical sensations anymore, his focus entirely on Lucifer who is still quivering in his grasp, clearly in the thrall of the after-effects of what they’ve been doing.  Alastor has never found carnal activities to be particularly arousing; they always seemed so…wasteful? Not to mention the fact the act seemed to dull the wits and the senses, leaving one vulnerable to attack – case in point, body below. Alastor can see at least five ways to kill Lucifer – tendrils coiling around that pretty pale neck to snap it or suffocate him, or even use his claws to rip Lucifer’s gently bobbing throat open… Ah, the delicious possibilities!

Lucifer looks up at him, still breathing heavily, and something complex and perhaps even…wounded flits across his face. Aw, did Alastor manage to inflict more than skin-deep injuries? He wants to see the extent of the damage and feels himself twitch with interest despite feeling absolutely no sexual desire whatsoever.

“Mind getting off me?” Lucifer tries for haughty, but it misses the mark, if barely.

“I thought I did?” Alastor’s neck tilts in curiosity.

Lucifer bares his teeth in a snarl and brings the heel of his boot up to Alastor’s still clothed chest, kicking him none too gently. It certainly isn’t pleasant, but it doesn’t hurt as much as he expected, not with Lucifer’s ire directed at him. Ah, but he is so fun to torment! Why would Alastor ever stop when each reaction is pure comedy gold? Still, better not antagonize him too much. There will be plenty of time for that later.

Alastor sighs dramatically. “Oh, if you insist,” then pulls out, to Lucifer’s shocked gasp.

The sight of Lucifer debauched, embarrassed, and angry is a million times more interesting than any physical sensation could ever hope to be.

“Aw, it would seem you’re springing a leak,” Alastor observes the trickle of his seed stain the ruined couch upholstery with feral amusement.

“One second–” Lucifer growls, “–you literally can’t hold yourself back from being an utter bitch for ONE second!”

Alastor gives Lucifer an indulgent look and lowers him back onto the couch, his tendrils withdrawing altogether. While Alastor puts himself to rights, Lucifer is massaging his wrists, his tattered shirt still hanging off of him, like the prettiest lacy curtain framing a dirty window. Ordinarily, the sight of semen-stained, sweaty people leaves Alastor feeling nothing but revulsion and disdain, but on Lucifer…it’s a, what do they call it these days, look?

The expression on Lucifer’s face is so delightfully indignant that Alastor wants to purr. That frown, those bitten pursed lips, those no longer golden eyes watering–

“Are those…tears?” Alastor sing-songs teasingly.

“No.” Lucifer spits out spitefully.

Alastor assumes they’re tears of humiliation and yes, finds it very fetching indeed. A traitorous tear breaks away from Lucifer’s lower eyelid and rolls down his cheek. Lucifer reaches for it in an attempt to wipe it away before Alastor can react, but he’s too slow, sluggish from their earlier exertions – Alastor captures the precious droplet on the pad of his index finger and absconds with it, retreating past the reach of Lucifer’s kicks.

 “I wonder what your tears taste like?” Alastor taunts. Does it taste as heavenly as Lucifer’s blood? Or does it taste of mortification and despair? Regret, perhaps?

“Hey, don’t–!“

But before Lucifer can finish that panicked sentence, Alastor is already sucking on his finger, mocking and irreverent, expecting nothing except Lucifer’s embarrassment for having bested him yet again–

Alastor’s throat seizes up, his field of vision shrinking at an alarming rate and his bared hand latches onto the backrest in panic, claws splintering wood, rending fabric and gripping the springs inside. His vision goes milky white and after he blinks to try and clear it, he is watching Lucifer–

–who is lying in an unfamiliar bed, face illuminated as if by moonlight, arms extended over his head; smile eager and blissful. Lilith is astride him, wearing a rich, dark purple night gown that barely covers her charms. “Lucifer,” she addresses the ruler of hell and the angel in question smiles at her radiantly. “I think I’d like to bind you tonight,” she speaks, voice soft as velvet and Lucifer responds with the kind of eagerness usually only displayed by his daughter – “Yes, my love.” Lilith raises her arms up and gentle purple mist divests her, pulling the silky material of her gown upwards in ripples. Alastor cannot shake the vision, naught but captive audience as the trailing purple fabric is manipulated to brush against Lucifer’s unmarred skin, making him shiver in pleasure. Lilith doesn’t use her hands for anything except to direct the flow of the fabric, which caresses a trail up Lucifer’s abdomen, chest, and then around his neck to emerge on the other side where Lucifer nuzzles his cheek against it. The snaking fabric travels up and around his arms to gently but firmly coil around his wrists, binding them together. Lucifer gazes up at his Queen and the look on his face is absolute adoration – utter joy – the very incarnation of love.

Alastor’s stomach churns and he claws at his throat, mutely aware that he’s drawing blood. He gags, his insides burning. His shadow explodes out of him and he can hear a distant sound of something crashing down, shattering into a million pieces. The sound of a wounded deer suffusing the air is jagged and sharp like a polished orbitoclast sliding into his brain. 

With a chilling, bone-crunching shudder Alastor gasps for air, filling his lungs like someone emerging from a live burial after clawing their way out of packed, wet ground. His sight clears, the forced vision releasing its grip on his senses, the ringing in his ears making him grit his teeth in a grimace of a smile.

“See? I fucking told you.” Lucifer pipes up somewhere to his right. “But did you listen? Nooooo, Alastor knows best – let’s ingest every fucking thing, no matter the effects! You know, one day it’s going to be the end of you. Don’t’ tell me later I didn’t warn y–“

“Shut up! Alastor screams, hands grasping his ears to flatten them against his skull. The full body shudder is unwelcome, and entirely involuntary. Even after literally dying once before, and being grievously slashed by Adam’s ridiculous golden instrument , this feels like another brush with death, and seeing how this makes two within the span of a week he reconsiders, very briefly, if perhaps Lucifer has a point. He should be more careful about what he puts in his mouth.

This brings up the point, though – what the fuck was in those tears? Lucifer’s blood is ambrosial, yet his tears are deadly? God has a very twisted sense of humor, but Alastor already knew that.

“Aaaand you destroyed my room. Thanks for that.”

Alastor turns nothing but his neck to give Lucifer a well deserved snarl. Lucifer laughs at him: “You’re an idiot.” Then he proceeds to get up off the couch, stretch his arms above his head and Alastor catches a glimpse of symmetrical markings adorning Lucifer’s back as the latter strips out of his ruined shirt without as much as a lick of shame, all trace of his previous bashfulness gone. The outlines look suspiciously like… stored wings? Alastor laments the fact that Lucifer likely wouldn’t allow him to pull at them outside of the boundaries of a sexual arrangement.

“What’s in those tears– “ Alastor questions, hackles raised, “–cyanide?”

Lucifer vanishes the tatters of his white pants and stands to face Alastor, completely nude, only sporting his black boots, hands perched on his hips. “What do you think, you suicidal freak?”

“Pretty diabolical of the Creator to make angelic tears a poisonous substance, if you ask me.”

“Oh, it’s not poisonous.” Lucifer grins at him, hip cocked. “Not one tiny little bit.”

“Then what in the ever-loving fuck was that?”

Lucifer looks so smug Alastor wants to snap him in half. He enunciates, with that infuriating little smirk of his: “Pure. Undiluted. Angelic. Power.”

“Shouldn’t I be dead, then?”

“From one tear? Probably not.”

“Good to know.” Alastor has absolutely no desire to repeat the experience.

“Will this teach you to finally ask for permission when you want things?” Lucifer asks, an eminently punchable smile etched onto his face.

“How does that saying go again…rather ask for forgiveness?”

Lucifer bursts into laughter. “You’re in Hell, Alastor! Forgiveness has not been dispensed, don’t you think?”

Alastor grumbles. “Shouldn’t this go against the rules of our deal?”

Lucifer shakes his head. “Deals function on the principle of intent, you know that. I didn’t put that tear into your mouth, did I? You committing suicide constituted exactly zero intent on my part.” With a shrug, Lucifer summons a snowy-white house robe with red trim and slips into it. The sight is so casual and domestic that Alastor wonders how Lucifer can feel comfortable like this. Perhaps he is more shameless than first meets the eye.

Alastor takes in the absolute carnage in the room –torn up couch – smashed chandelier – toppled bookcase – overturned table –shards of crystal littering the ground. Books are lying scattered all over, and the pile of ducklings that had been stuffed under the table has spilled across the floor like a mass migration. Or perhaps mass murder. Alastor knows which one of those options is the most fun one.

Golden swirls of power gather around Lucifer and his black fingers flick hither and dither, seemingly every single object in the room flying up, whizzing past each other and floating back into their previous positions – books line up on the shelves as the bookcase rights itself, the table lands back on its legs and the ducklings sail back into a large pile, now on the opposite side of the room, leaving the space under the table empty. Alastor wonders whether he should be reading anything into that or not – that coffee was truly something he wouldn’t mind having again.

The coffee tray deposits itself onto the table, the broken saucers and cups mending in midair and landing on top of it with a gentle clink. The carafe and empty sugar bowl join the ensemble and the expansive coffee stain vanishes off the floor. The smashed radio uncrumples and returns to its place of honor on the shelf – Alastor wonders when that happened?

As a grand finale, the crystal chandelier pieces swirl around Lucifer like a cascade of crushed diamonds, shimmering in the gloom of the room. Slowly, they rise up like droplets of an inverted waterfall, defying gravity.  The chandelier reassembles itself and the moment it’s hung, warm light fills the room.

Lucifer sighs in satisfaction and dusts his hands off.

Then his gaze lands on Alastor and he startles. “What are you still doing here?”

A fair question. Their deal has concluded, for now, so Alastor really should be on his way.

“Alrighty then!” Alastor exclaims, getting back to his feet and brushing some imaginary lint off his coat. “Oh, by the way, before I leave, what should I tell dear Charlie about the reason why you were so despondent as of late?”

“What do you mean; I thought we went over this?”

“Yes, yes, you want me to announce that we’ve buried the hatchet, but what if she asks more probing questions?” Personally, Alastor would be more than happy to invent some cockamamie story, but he’d prefer to keep Lucifer in a cooperative mood for longer.

Lucifer ponders the question seriously. “I…I’m not sure.”

“Well, that’s not terribly useful, is it?” Alastor retorts on reflex.

“What do you want me to say?” Lucifer explodes, “If I knew how to talk to her properly, I would have already done so!”

“Well, what’s stopping you?” Alastor asks, voice lilting. “She won’t bite.”

“Aha.” Lucifer is deeply unimpressed. “Unlike some people in this room.”

“Oho!” Alastor exclaims, invading Lucifer’s personal space and hovering over him. “Would you like that?”

Lucifer pushes him away, eyes wary. “Look, keep your… murder-y cannibal stuff away from me, ok? You’re lucky I let what you did today slide. Don’t expect me to allow injury every time.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” Alastor says theatrically.

“Anyway, look… I’m…I’m not great at this…talking stuff. It’s been so long since I’ve had a proper conversation with anyone.”

“You managed just fine today?” Alastor says like he has no idea what Lucifer is talking about.

Lucifer, in turn, narrows his eyes. “Very funny. Bickering doesn’t count.”

“Why not?” Alastor pretends to be aghast. “A touch of verbal sparring keeps the mind sharp!”

“Not every conversation has to be a fight!” Lucifer cries out, utterly exasperated, his arms spread in a grand gesture. “And with you, everything is!”

“As per the terms of our agreement, I shall refrain from unduly antagonizing you in front of dear Charlie.” Alastor promises.

“Great! Thanks! Now could you please fuck off to wherever you go when you’re not creeping around and eating people? I need a bath.”

“Alrighty then! I shall simply tell Charlie to ask you herself, but will assure her that we are on much more civil terms now. How does that sound?”

Lucifer seems lost for a moment and then simply sighs. “Yeah, whatever… okay.”

Alastor can tell that Lucifer’s guard is down – he looks tired and drawn. If there ever was a time when Lucifer was suggestible, this was it. All he needs to do now is make the mood lighter, put himself in the position of adviser or confidant, and give Lucifer a semi-plausible piece of advice. Now that he has Charlie’s favor secured, there’s no reason to hang around her as much anymore, aside from the duties pertaining to the hotel, naturally. Lucifer, however, now that’s the ticket to freedom. If he endears himself to the Lord of Hell, his chances of finally being able to unclip his wings go drastically up. And now that Lucifer isn’t allowed to snuff him out, there are no visible drawbacks that Alastor can see. Except the whole granting of sexual favors – that one is going to be annoying – but Alastor is willing to make that sacrifice. It’s not like Lucifer would want to broadcast their little deal anyway – Alastor feels pretty secure on that front.

The mended radio whispers to life, playing the most soothing, magical-sounding thing Alastor can think of, something that would surely appeal to Lucifer’s soppy sensibilities. Out of pianissimo, flutes start floating over the delicate raindrops the pianos are weaving together as the violins gently sweep underneath them like water currents.

Alastor places his ungloved right hand on Lucifer’s shoulder as gently as he can muster.

“Your daughter believes in honesty.” He says softly, trying really hard not to let the mockery bleed into his tone. “If you tell her the truth, it might bring you closer? You both lost the same person, after all.”

Lucifer looks up at him, hopeful and broken all at once. His eyes start brimming with tears. Alastor knows better than to touch them this time around. Lucifer nods slightly, offering a pained little smile. “You’re right.” He doesn’t have to say thank you, as the gratitude can be plainly seen shining in his misty eyes.

“I’d say good night, but it’s already morning,” Alastor jibes.

It has the intended effect, as Lucifer huffs out a soft little laugh. “Good morning to you too.”

Alastor withdraws his hand and affects a tiny little cough.

“Well, then. See you at the hotel later,” he says pleasantly.” Ta!” And in a swirl of shadowy mist, he’s gone.

Chapter Text

Alastor travels through the shadows until he materializes in his quarters, exhausted. It’s quite a trip from Lucifer’s not so humble (yet still somehow tacky) abode. He supposes a shower is in order after his and Lucifer’s little dalliance. A glance at the mirror reveals the ghastly self-inflicted tears upon his throat; bloodied gashes all dried up and scabbed over. Hah, Lucifer never bothered healing those, did he? Alastor divests and steps into the shower. The warm spray of water always helps him think. Tonight, or rather, this morning, had been an absolutely fascinating endeavor.

When he tallies all of his gains, it’s kind of dizzying. Not only did he manage to complete Charlie’s little errand, he also managed to finagle a most favorable deal out of the most powerful being in all of Hell. Not only is Lucifer unable to kill him now, but he has also unwittingly placed himself in the position of harm. Alastor knows the more time he gets with Lucifer, the easier it will be to place him under his thumb. If that tearful parting was anything to go by, he’s already got it half in the bag.

But the biggest takeaway here has to be Lucifer’s blood – and his tears. The former tastes divine; the latter nearly left him dead for the second time in the same day and it was not even noon yet. Alastor is slowly growing quite irritated with his near-misses. He ponders whether he could somehow get a deal out of Lucifer to borrow some of his powers and wonders if he’s being too greedy. His early success has definitely made him hasty.

And then there is the matter of the blasted tear. Alastor had been too shocked by the utter loss of control at the time, but now that he was back on home turf and alone at last, he could safely unpack that particular mind-fuck.

What he had seen…could have very well been a fantasy conjured by Lucifer’s delusional lonely mind, and it would hardly be surprising for the fallen angel to be imagining his spouse while he’s being fucked by an enemy, but the amount of detail in that vision doesn’t exactly support that hypothesis. Especially if Alastor takes the context into account – he had just been on top of Lucifer, binding his wrists, and then Lucifer cries and the vision contains both of these elements? No, that has to be more than a coincidence. And if he’s not mistaken, the purple nightgown that Lilith had been sporting was the same exact garment he had spied in the lower drawer of Lucifer’s workbench. When he takes all of this into account, it appears that what he had seen wasn’t a vision at all, nor a pitiful fantasy.

It had been a memory.

If he extrapolates further, the memory is likely a precious one, from a period in time when Hell’s ruling couple’s marital relations had not yet turned frosty. It would appear that Lilith used to have Lucifer well in hand. Alastor can respect that. Another thing he can do – is learn from it.

1. Lucifer seems to enjoy being restrained. (Alastor can work with that. He spent a lot of his first life tying various ne’er-do-wells into knots.)

And

2. There’s currently a Lilith-sized hole in Lucifer’s chest. (That Alastor is more than willing to claw his way into. It sounds positively cozy.)

Oh, not that he wants the love or even the kind of relationship Lucifer shared with Lilith; that would be utterly preposterous. No, what he wants is to confuse Lucifer, play his insecurities so expertly that the fool begins to desire his companionship, starts to value Alastor’s presence, and asks for his input. If Alastor manages to leverage Lucifer’s desperate need for intimacy, he could reap many rewards – and all it would have cost him is some fake sympathy and his so-called ‘innocence’.

As he steps out of the shower, he doesn’t even bother drying himself – that’s what spells are for. As his hooves softly pad across the newly refurbished floors, he activates a radio in his rooms with a lazy flick of his hand. With a burst of static, the radio lights up and a jaunty tune spews forth. He’s in the mood for something fun from his youth and jazz never disappoints. Besides, it’s a good palate cleanser from all that nauseating romantic nonsense Lucifer seemed to prefer. Alastor dances across his room, hooves tapping somewhat inadequately against the floor – a reminder on why he wears the shoes in the first place – it’s hard to do tap without an actual heel. He dissolves into a shadow momentarily and takes his clothing along for the ride. He’s found reconstitution to be an effective substitution for cleaning, at least if he focuses. When he emerges in his corporeal form, he’s as fresh as the proverbial daisy.

He may be leaving his rooms later than usual, but he does so in a great mood, all the radio receivers across the hotel switching on as he passes them by, tuning to the same jazz station. He hums along, pleased, walking a leisurely pace, cane held behind his back. Instead of using the elevators, he melts into his shadow form and drops down all thirteen floors to reform in the middle of the lobby.

“Alastor!” Charlie greets him cheerfully, fussing over a lush floral arrangement in one of the vases and as soon as she skips over to him, Alastor notices how Niffty jumps up on the side table like an especially acrobatic flea behind the Princess’ back and fixes it up so it looks more aesthetically pleasing. Ah, such a treasure, that one. Alastor respects a woman of such singular determination to be the best at what she does. The fact she stabbed that detestable Adam like the odious cockroach he was still gives him murderous satisfaction.

“How did it go?” Charlie asks, excitement warring with apprehension as she bites her lip. “I’d say you’re in a good mood, but with you, it’s sometimes hard to tell…”

Ah, so she CAN be perceptive. Good to know.

“Ah, did the jazz give me away?” Alastor quips.

Charlie laughs uncomfortably, nerves getting the best of her. He decides not to keep her in uncertainty.

“Well, you are absolutely right, my dear!” Alastor exclaims with dramatic emphasis, splaying his right hand over his chest (now mercifully healed and no longer aching). “I have wonderful news for you!”

“Did you find out why my dad has been feeling so down?”

Alastor leans in marginally, projecting an air of conspiratorial mischief.

“I have.”

Charlie beams up at him, jumping up with a thrilled smile, hands clasped in front of her face. “Really? You’re the best, Alastor!”

He gives her a shit eating grin. Of course he is. How nice is it to be appreciated for one’s talents! It’s quite amusing to stand before the second most powerful person in Hell (who’s about as incapable of exercising her actual powers, just like her father) that he has spent the past hour fucking said father into the couch in his sad little room. Simply holding that amusing image in his mind gives him satisfaction, and it’s only amplified by her look of pure awe and gratitude.

Alastor laughs. “It was nothing, my dear! Anytime!” Well, technically, anytime Lucifer wanted, but that was just semantics.

“And, what is it?” She asks; guileless eyes wide and trusting. Alastor realizes he’s seen those eyes before. Lucifer in that vision-memory had that same look on his face. That perfect trust – Alastor needs to replicate the same effect on the father.

“Ah, I’m afraid I was sworn to secrecy on that front.” He plays it up, enjoying her crestfallen expression.

“Did you two fight?” Charlie asks, afraid. “Oh, please don’t tell me you fought! Are you ok?”

Alastor all but purrs. Had Lucifer been there, he would be green with envy that Charlie asked about Alastor’s health first. He pinches her cheek vigorously. “Oh, of course not, my silly girl! We are both civilized gentlemen!”

He valiantly resists the urge to sing out: “I have fucked your daaaaaad–“ but manages to rein himself in. The temptation is strong, and her shocked face would be so satisfying, but it would also ruin his standing with her, and he can’t afford to yet. It’s much better to remain in her good books for as long as possible.

The best lies contain a grain of truth, so he spins a yarn: “We sat down for a perfectly pleasant cup of coffee and decided it would be in everyone’s best interest to put our past animosity behind us for the benefit of the hotel. We want to project a united front for all the wayward souls that are knocking on our doors, after all.”

“Really?” Charlie says, eyes large and glistening with unshed tears.

“But of course,” Alastor exclaims, grandiose. “Would I lie to you?”

Charlie throws herself into his arms and clings to him like a limpet. Alastor remains there, rigidly upright, patiently suffering through her affections. “There, there.” He offers her head a perfunctory pat. (So like Lucifer’s, that color.)

“Oh, thankyouthankyouthankyouAl!” She says, words rushed and muffled into the lapel of his coat.

He gently pries her off of himself by the shoulders. “What’s a favor between friends? A mere trifle!” And if his smirk is extra toothy, who would blame him? “And, as an extra favor for my special girl, your father has promised he would come speak to you on his own! Isn’t that wonderful?”

Charlie’s chin wobbles and her eyes overflow with tears. She starts blubbering in front of him, all snotty and undignified, and he merely exhales through his nose with an indulgent look. Vaggie runs into the foyer, clearly summoned by her partner’s sounds of distress and levels Alastor with a venomous glare.

“What did you do to Charlie?” She accuses, pulling Charlie closer for an inspection before addressing her: “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Charlie gasps for air between ugly sobs and manages to squeeze out: “–happy tears–“, which seems to temporarily mollify Vaggie, who holds her close, clearly conditioned to manage the Princess’ frequent emotional outbursts. “I’m here, love, I’m here.” Vaggie soothes her and kisses her forehead. Charlie Morningstar wails through tears: “Daddy will talk to meeeeeeeeee–“ before dissolving into another hopeless crying fit, Vaggie rubbing her back and emitting soothing shushing noises.

“I think my job here is done,” Alastor announces smugly. “See you later, chums!”

He slinks into his shadow form and makes a hasty retreat before he’s subjected to more soppy nonsense. Two Morningstars in one morning is too much for him. At least Lucifer had the good sense to be wary of him before turning into mush at their parting.

Alastor is content to leave them to their sentimental drivel and wait for Lucifer to seek him out again, after all, how long could that possibly take?

Chapter Text

As it turns out, it can take a really long fucking time because Lucifer is ignoring him. The nerve!

At first Alastor thinks that the aloof politeness is an improvement over Lucifer’s usual moping, but after an entire week of bland indifference, Alastor is starting to get increasingly irritated. The hotel is now fully remodeled, and still fairly empty. Cherri Bomb has taken to loitering around their bar and will occasionally crash in one of the rooms but isn’t a full-blown resident yet. He’s noticed a few new lost souls wandering about, but they strike Alastor as either bums or new arrivals in Hell attempting to find shelter. He pays them little mind, Niffty can take care of the nitty-gritty tedium of daily affairs. The busier things are, the more maniacal she gets, and at least that’s a nice change of pace from being infuriatingly and entirely IGNORED by Lucifer.

The worst thing is that Lucifer and Charlie are spending more time together, which makes them sparkle extra obnoxiously and fill the halls with squeals of joy. It’s peaceful, and soppy, and so incredibly boring that Alastor wants to crawl out of his skin. What happened? Where did things go wrong? How could Lucifer go from desperately lonely and needy to entirely indifferent?

And the worst part of it all (and there is a tiered list) is that even venison has started to taste…bland. Alastor usually relishes his mealtimes, a fine gustatory pleasure one of the few things he knows he can reliably count upon, but now? After having tasted Lucifer’s holy blood, even the rarest, freshest steak has lost its savor. Where once he found depth and complexity of flavor, now it only tastes like…carcass. Which, fair. Alas, his taste buds tingle with the memory of life, the vibrancy of creation, and Alastor can’t dislodge it from his mind. After having tried it, most other forms of sustenance simply pale in comparison.

And he was very much looking forward to sampling it again, only to have Lucifer uphold his end of the bargain to be civil to an annoying degree. Despite it being one of the stipulations of their deal, Alastor hadn’t considered the fact that Lucifer would keep him waiting. How monumentally rude. He should really teach Lucifer a lesson.

So when Charlie proclaims a mandatory movie night for the hotel staff and residents to ‘bond over’, Alastor decides to attend. Not only will it make dear Charlie so happy, it is also liable to make Lucifer twitch in annoyance at Alastor for stealing some of her attention away. It is no less than he deserves for keeping Alastor away from his new favorite meal.

Now that their flock of deluded sheep seeking redemption has increased, one of the rooms has been turned into a venue, together with a small stage, projection screen, and about a dozen round tables covered in black embroidered tablecloths. Some tables are entirely empty, while others contain solitary sinners, keeping a wary eye on the proceedings. Only the central table is bursting with people, many chairs crammed around it, definitely over capacity.

Predictably, it contains a lot of familiar faces – Charlie is presiding over them all, flanked by Lucifer seated on her left and Vaggie sitting to her right with a besotted look on her face. Ah, young love. How endearingly pointless. To Lucifer’s left are Angel Dust and his chaotic, explosive-slinging gal pal Cherri Bomb. There is a tray of shots in front of her, and a third of them have been emptied already. To his surprise, Angel isn’t partaking in the binge, and is demurely sipping on some kind of colorful cocktail with a little rainbow umbrella sticking out of it. Has Husker mixed that up for Angel? What a suspicious amount of initiative for a lazy gambler.

To Vaggie’s right are Husker and Niffty, Husker nursing a glass of something pungent, and Niffty hopping in her seat like a doped-up Chihuahua. Alastor catches the tail end of her deranged chattering: “Are there gonna be baaaad boys in this movie? Huh? Huh?”

“No clue, Niff.” Husker says gruffly, and Niffty stares at the empty white screen with maniacal glee. For her sake, Alastor hopes the picture will have a bad boy to suit her tastes; she deserves a little treat after ridding him of Adam.

Charlie finally notices him and jumps out of her seat. “Alastor! You made it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, my dear!” Alastor exclaims magnanimously.

Lucifer’s left eyelid twitches.

“Oh, I’m so happy that everyone’s here!” Then her face falls. “Sir Pentious would have loved this. There’s a fencing scene in this movie that would have made him so happy…” At that, both Lucifer and Vaggie jump in to do damage control before the princess can turn on the waterworks. Alastor leaves them to it and pulls out the last chair, seating himself next to Niffty. She looks up at him with a crazed grin and he smiles down at her fondly. She is so cute when she radiates homicidal glee (which is pretty much all of the time, to Alastor’s eternal amusement).

“So, what are we gonna be watching?” Angel pipes up.

Charlie beams her brightest, ten thousand watt smile. “The Court Jester!”

Lucifer perks up. “Oh, that sounds fun, sweetie! Is it a comedy?”

“Yes!” Charlie claps her hands. “It was made in 1955.”

“Whoa, that’s some old shit, huh?” Cherri Bomb grins, elbows on the table and empty shot glass dangling from her fingers.

As it was after his time, Alastor isn’t familiar with it. He finds himself mildly insulted by Cherri’s comment. Old shit? People have no class nowadays.

Alastor keeps half an eye on Lucifer at all times, but the man pays him no mind, his focus entirely on his daughter, who is happily explaining some trivia pertaining to the film – Alastor isn’t really paying attention.

Anger swells up inside him. Lucifer was supposed to be malleable – he had half-melted when Alastor was playing with him – but now acted like Alastor didn’t exist. The most he’s gotten out of Lucifer these past few days was a terse ‘good morning’. Not as much as a nod, or a smile, or even a whiff of annoyance. Charlie took this as the most wonderful development because they weren’t fighting anymore, but Alastor was left deeply unsatisfied. While he wouldn’t mind being let off the hook for their deal as he cared little about the carnal aspect of it, and cared even less about the stipulation putting him at Lucifer’s beck and call; yet to not be called upon at all? No, that wouldn’t do. If Lucifer wanted to play this game, Alastor could join it at any time and throw the rulebook out the window.

“Dad, could you lower the lights?” Charlie asks Lucifer, who looks at her adoringly. “Of course, honey!”

With a flourish of Lucifer’s fingers (a gesture clearly played up to impress his daughter), the lights in the hall dim to proper cinema levels and for a few moments there’s a lot of hushing and shushing as people settle down and turn their attention to the screen, where an overly jolly orchestral theme starts playing, the screed bordered with medieval shields, and an unfamiliar actor dressed in a ridiculous jester costume begins to sing. It serves as a prelude, as well as credits to the film, and while it isn’t the worst thing he’s ever seen, it is far too chipper for his tastes, and the jester’s antennae look absolutely ridiculous.

When he takes a casual side-glance at Lucifer, the man seems delighted by it. Hah. Of course he would be – he likes any person or place that looks like a circus (including himself).

When the villain is mentioned, Alastor is startled to recognize the name – Basil Rathbone – why, isn’t that the fellow who played Mr.Murdstone in ‘David Copperfield’ back in the mid-thirties? There was a disciplining scene in there that had made quite an impression, back in the day. How did it go again? The man’s step-child, a boy, failed to do a simple math problem and got caned for it. It had been commonplace, back in his day. His father didn’t exactly spare the rod either, but it was the words themselves out of context that resonated with Alastor – “If I have an obstinate horse or a dog to deal with, what do you think I do? I beat him. I make him wince, and smart. I say to myself: I’ll conquer that fellow, and if it were to cost him all the blood he had, I do it.” And while Alastor doesn’t find caning children particularly useful, there is an obstinate wretch sitting nearby that would benefit from proper discipline. It’s a pity that he might not get the opportunity to take a cane to Lucifer’s bare skin…

Luckily, there’s more than one way to skin a cat, and Alastor has the perfect way to regain Lucifer’s attention. He smirks to himself; Lucifer will never see it coming. Now there’s only the matter of timing.

Alastor tries to pay attention to the picture, he really does, and there are moments when he’s at least mildly entertained. The lyrics are quippy, the singing snappy, and the choreography entertaining. The costuming is a bit too on the nose, and at some points there are children dressed as dwarves from Snow White, which might be a deliberate choice, but seems just a touch too silly even for a pretend-medieval setting.

The protagonist is wimpy, and has more luck than sense, but at least the female leads are more interesting – both of them far more enterprising than Hawkins. Maid Jean is a captain and fighter under the command of the Black Fox and his merry band of forest-dwelling rebels. Princess Gwendolyn, the tyrannical usurper’s daughter, is sassy and wonderfully dramatic, so that’s fun. Also clearly apt at emotional manipulation, which is perfectly admirable in its own right.

But when the protagonist, Hubert Hawkins begins to sing a lullaby for the baby who is the rightful heir to the throne (and under the protection of the Black Fox and the aforementioned rebels), Alastor tunes out completely. When Jean keeps looking at Hawkins like he’s won dad of the year award and will make a perfect husband for her own offspring one day; Alastor rolls his eyes. Naturally, when he glances at Charlie, she’s looking at her own father like he’s her hero, and Lucifer hugs her close, petting her hair. Vaggie hands Charlie a tissue unprompted.

Alastor takes in the rest of the company – Angel is stuffing his face with popcorn, Cherri is yawning, and Husker just looks bemused. The atmosphere both in the film and in the room is too tender to make any moves now, but there will surely be more action later that can cover Alastor’s tracks.

When he chances a glance back at the screen, Jean and Hawkins are discussing marriage and in the next breath, kissing on a pile of hay. What a load of nonsense, hay would be so uncomfortable to lie on that nobody could be inspired enough for amorous activities, surely.

“Aw, they’re kinda cute together!” Cherri Bomb says, and Angel laughs, adding: “Nah, that shit’s too PG.” Cherri cackles.

Vaggie lets out an irritated: “Shhhhh!”

On screen, Captain Jean has the sense to make a decent plan, even if said plan involves putting Hawkins undercover as a random jester they bumped into (which is bound to end in absolute disaster).

Then Basil Rathbone shows up on screen again as Sir Ravenhurst; revealing that the jester he’s hired is also an assassin, and wouldn’t you know it, Alastor is proven correct.

“Oooooh, what a bad boy!” Niffty starts to hyperventilate with excitement. “Kill them all!”

“Ain’t he too old to be a bad boy?” Angel snarks from the opposite side of the table. “He’s clearly a bad, bad daddy.”

“Bad daddy!” Niffty exclaims, entirely feral for the idea and most of the table laughs (Alastor NOT among them).

Alastor is temporarily intrigued with the plot as Lady Gwendolyn, clad in all black like a dramatic, tragic evil queen, threatens the court witch Griselda with murder. Ah, the sight of women wielding sharp implements is always a balm for the soul.

“I like her…” Niffty says in a sneaky little growl, clearly awed by the expertly executed death threats.

Ah, if only Gwendolyn wasn’t doing it for a lover promised to her by Griselda (who was lying out of a sense of self-preservation – clearly), that would have been much better. If Gwendolyn wanted to get out of her marriage, all she needed to do was assassinate her groom to be! A woman that beautiful would surely have no trouble pulling off such a scheme.

And when Griselda bewitches Hawkins to seduce the Princess Gwendolyn, Alastor’s admiration for her grows. What a splendid ability! If only he had the like, Lucifer wouldn’t be giving him any trouble. Alas, he is forced to go about things the pedestrian way.

Speaking of Lucifer, the man is watching the screen as if spellbound, laughing and ohh-ing at all the appropriate places. While the hypnotized Hawkins romances Gwendolyn to the dictates of humor and plot convenience, Alastor quietly observes Lucifer and plots. How should he go about this? He’s tempted to play footie under the table, as he knows that would probably shock Lucifer into responding. He can already imagine the lovely blush he remembers, blooming across Lucifer’s alabaster skin – yet with so many people sitting at the table, it would be logistically challenging to pull off (not to mention risky). God forbid he accidentally brushes Angel’s leg, he’d never hear the end of it. The endless amount of innuendos that would generate… He shudders internally.

He should start small. Just a slight provocation as the opening salvo.

As Hawkins is making a fool of himself while impersonating the jester, Charlie and Lucifer are laughing brightly, all happy and guileless. While Danny Kaye is busy making funny faces, Alastor’s shadow bleeds onto the floor, cautious and deliberate on its way to Lucifer’s feet all safely tucked away under the table.

The plot unfolds on the screen – a series of misunderstandings, each more contrived than the next, and a tendril of Alastor’s shadow creeps – ever so carefully – up Lucifer’s boot-clad calf. He knows Lucifer cannot feel its touch yet, as it’s still shadow and has yet to materialize, but Alastor watches out of the corner of his eye, smile etched onto his face. The thought of tormenting Lucifer where everyone could see his reaction fills him with pleasure. Will he yelp? Blush? Try to smite Alastor across the table? All of these are fun in their own right. It’s doubly convenient, then, that Lucifer can’t actually kill him, no matter what Alastor does.

The tendril crawls up to Lucifer’s knee and stops. Alastor gives it shape, keeps it light, and imagines what it would feel like to actually caress Lucifer under the table. Recalls the feeling of those immaculate thighs, soft as sin, and how eager Lucifer was to receive touch. The shadow tendril unfurls in one brief, but very definite caress down Lucifer’s clothed knee. Lucifer’s knee jerks reflexively and he looks down in alarm. Alastor’s shadow turns non-corporeal once more, sticking to the underside of the table, biding its time. Lucifer shakes his head, certain that he must have imagined the sensation.

Alastor goes back to the film, briefly enjoying the triple poisoning that gets pinned onto the hapless protagonist. Oh, Griselda, what a wonderfully resourceful old harridan! The plot proceeds apace, and after a few minutes, Alastor can no longer curb his impulse to try again. Would Lucifer cotton on this time? Or will he remain confused? Either outcome is guaranteed to amuse.

Alastor’s shadow unpeels off the underside of the table and hovers just shy off of Lucifer’s left thigh. Alastor breathes slowly, focused on the kind of touch he wants to elicit. Will Lucifer remember the caress of Alastor’s tendrils? Will he recognize it when it happens? His shadow sweeps a gentle line along the outer seam of Lucifer’s mended pants, and this time, Lucifer jerks in his seat, startled.

Charlie whispers a confused: “Dad?”

“Nothing!” Lucifer replies in a hushed tone, clearly discomposed, but trying to hide it from his daughter. “Just surprised the bad guys figured out Hawkins isn’t the real jester, sweetie.”

Charlie giggles and then turns to Vaggie to nuzzle her. While her back is turned, Lucifer sneaks a look under the table, trying to find the source of the disturbance, but finds nothing – Alastor’s shadow is stuck to one of the chair legs; safely out of sight.

The wariness on Lucifer’s face is positively scrumptious, but he’s too alarmed for the moment and Alastor needs him to get lulled back into a false sense of security before tormenting him any further. Alastor relaxes in his seat, offering a token laugh here and there while Hawkins is being rushed through his knighting, and waits. When the fumbling protagonist gets challenged to a duel he’s expected to lose, darling Gwendolyn threatens the witch with death once more, and Alastor silently applauds her. That woman would make a fine demon.

The rest of the hall is laughing at a very protracted scene taking place before the supposed fight to the death between Hawkins and Gwendolyn’s brutish suitor. While the characters are engaging in rhymes and wordplay, Alastor can feel his pulse quickening. It’s so hard to hold back from running his shadow’s hands over Lucifer, but he bites his tongue. Patience.

Alastor ignores the nonsense happening on screen in lieu of coming up with other ways to mess with his quarry. He could have his shadow crawl up Lucifer’s sleeve and wrap around his wrist like he did while restraining him that first time. The memory of Lucifer laid out before him, bared and disheveled, makes his core pulse with something warm.

When Hawkins shows mercy to the brute he bested by pure chance, Niffty boos loudly next to him, much to the rest of the table’s amusement. Husker says something snarky to which Angel high-fives him across the table and Cherri raises another shot glass in toast, but all of it is just background noise for Alastor, his periphery consumed with Lucifer’s carefree laughter that Alastor can’t wait to disturb.

Not long now, not long at all.

As the entire cast of this farcical little tale assembles on screen and the utter pandemonium in the throne room begins, Alastor carefully maneuvers his shadowy hands above Lucifer’s slightly spread legs and grasps both of his knees with a light caress. Lucifer’s eyes go wide as he stiffens in his chair. Alastor’s grin is sly and unrepentant as Lucifer stops breathing in his peripheral vision. In a deliberate and brisk move, Alastor pulls Lucifer’s knees further apart. Lucifer makes the tiniest of strangled noises and promptly clamps his mouth shut. Baleful red eyes swerve unerringly in Alastor’s direction and he can’t help it – he laughs.

“Wow, did you see that guy on the trapeze?” Cherri exclaims, slurring her words. “That was pretty sweet!”

Angel laughs next to her and slings one of his four arms over her shoulders. “You’re drunk, bestie.”

“Hear, hear.” Husker says wisely in his deep baritone.

Lucifer’s laser-focused stare abates. Alastor is holding the vaunted king of Hell in check, unable to move or speak out. If Lucifer did so, the entire table would notice. More importantly, his innocent daughter would notice too, and Alastor knows Lucifer would never want his precious daughter to know that he’s fucking an Overlord of lowly sinner stock.

The King. In check. By the Radio Demon.

Alastor’s lower half, which has been completely dormant for the past week, pulses. It’s fleeting, lasts no more than half a second, but it’s there.

“Ha ha ha, are they really gonna chuck all of these guys into the water?” Angel laughs.

Husker pipes in: “They’re swimming with the fishes now.”

Angel hoots in delight and throws Husker a lascivious grin. Alastor rolls his eyes. Angel Dust may be utterly inappropriate at the best of times, but at least the fellow is consistent.

While everyone is distracted, Alastor’s shadowy hands flex, crawling up Lucifer’s clothed thighs. The muscle bunches under his touch, Lucifer turning to stone in the wake of his ministrations. A vigorous swordfight erupts between the hapless hero and Sir Ravenhurst, Hawkins oscillating wildly between competent and incompetent with a literal snap of the fingers (another of the witch’s inconvenient spells). Husker is snickering somewhere behind him, Charlie is giggling, even Vaggie is laughing along.

The only voice not joining in the merriment is Lucifer’s. He’s mute, as if petrified; the only part of him that’s moving is his Adam’s apple. Alastor’s shadowy fingers turn into blunted claws, running from the crux of Lucifer’s thighs down to his knees; thumbs caressing the sensitive skin of those silky inner thighs that can be felt under the crisp white material. Lucifer grabs at the shadowy limbs, but they dissipate, avoiding capture. Lucifer presses his lips into a thin line.

Alastor bares his teeth, grinning from ear to ear. He can feel the anger and panic radiating off of Lucifer as his thighs quiver and flex. Inspired by such a delicious reaction, his shadowy hands materialize and reach for the fastenings of Lucifer’s pants. The first button pops free and Lucifer gasps, one of his knees jerking up and banging into the table. Lucifer’s eyes go wide, and he bangs his fist against the table, forcing an unconvincing: “Ha! What a fun fight, am I right?”

Charlie agrees vehemently, and Lucifer seems relieved for all of a second before narrowing his eyes in Alastor’s general direction. Lucifer attempts to swat Alastor’s shadowy fingers away under the table, only for them to reform immediately after – and another button is freed. The fingers of Alastor’s right hand grip the rim of his chair out of sight of everyone else. If he could, he would crow his triumph for all to hear – Lucifer Morningstar; undone by a few covert caresses and unable to say a damned thing while in full view of everyone. Which sinner in Hell can boast such an accomplishment?

“Get him, bad daddy!!” Niffty cries out, flinging her spindly little arms into the air with homicidal glee.

The entire table bursts into laughter; all eyes glued to the screen.

All eyes except Lucifer’s.

Alastor feels the full weight of that gaze, burning holes in the back of his skull. Saliva pools in his mouth as the stitches protest the width of his smile. With feral satisfaction, one of his shadow hands grasps Lucifer’s left thigh, who strikes as a snake – grabs it – pins it in place. The flash of triumph on Lucifer’s face is snuffed out a moment later, when Alastor’s other hand reaches for his fly and palms the protrusion he finds there. Lucifer’s thing twitches under Alastor’s shadowy fingers.

Alastor’s blood boils.

And then, as a final nail in Lucifer’s coffin, Alastor’s shadows liquefy, trailing down his thighs like spilling ink. Lucifer’s spine spasms and then the touch is gone; retreated back into the safety of Alastor’s corporeal form.

The villain is dispatched on screen, catapulted into the sea off the battlements, and the film concludes with the baby heir being proclaimed king to the merriment of all. Alastor makes a cooing noise and claps his hands at the happy ending. “How lovely!” He proclaims amiably, soaking up the agitated energy positively rolling off of Lucifer who seems to be trying to surreptitiously button his pants back up while the rest of their gang is distracted with positive emotion.

Niffty sniffles next to Alastor and starts wailing inconsolably. “Nooooo, bad daddy is swimming with the fisheeeeees–“

Alastor laughs out loud, delighted. He only grows more so when the entire table joins in, including Lucifer, whose smile is looking mighty strained. Alastor purrs internally. His job here is done.

With perfect poise, Alastor rises from his seat.

“Thank you for an entertaining evening, my dear.” He addresses Charlie; his words intended for another.

“Aw, you’re leaving already?” Charlie pouts.

Lucifer’s stare could melt steel.

Alastor responds in a chipper tone. “I’m afraid it’s been a long and dreadfully exhausting day, I should really head to bed if I want to get my beauty sleep.”

If Lucifer can’t infer his real meaning, then he’s an absolute idiot.

“Okay,” Charlie acquiesces easily. “Good night, Alastor!”

As a final ‘fuck you’, Alastor takes a deep, mocking bow. “It’s been my absolute pleasure.”

He turns to shadow before everyone’s eyes, enjoying the parting look of utter fury Lucifer gives him before melting away.

Chapter Text

Alastor materializes in his rooms, finally away from prying eyes and starts laughing maniacally, face held in his left hand, grin peeking between splayed fingers. Oh, Lucifer must have been absolutely livid!

How long will it take for Lucifer to come barging into Alastor’s room to blast his door off its hinges? Or will he need time for his inconvenient carnal reflex to subside first? The image of Lucifer trying so desperately to hide his arousal from his darling daughter is brilliantly vivid and thoroughly satisfying in his mind.

Alastor flips on the radio, and the music of his youth plays jubilantly, filling his suite with glorious trumpets and trombones.

He saunters to his large, perfectly made bed, and makes himself comfortable atop the covers. He lounges on his back and grabs the latest newspapers waiting for him on his nightstand. If Lucifer comes, Alastor will appear the epitome of unbothered.

A few minutes pass, and Alastor is halfway done with the news when a fizzing golden portal opens in the middle of the room and Lucifer steps in, posture one of barely repressed fury, teeth gritted so hard they should probably be chipped at this point. The portal fizzles out into nothing in a shower of angry golden sparks.

Alastor lets the newspaper flip over and gives Lucifer a smug smile.

“What. The. Fuck. Was. That?” Lucifer hisses, irises turning molten gold.

“Whatever do you mean? I’ve been on my best behavior, as promised.”

Lucifer shakes his head with a grimace. His eyes narrow as he looks at Alastor’s unaffected calm and he visibly restrains himself. His golden eyes feel oddly like vivisection.

“Were you that desperate to regain my attention?” Lucifer purrs, fingers on his chin. “Because that’s pretty pathetic.”

Alastor’s smile drops a fraction.

Lucifer’s entire expression turns mocking. “Aw, did you miss me, Alastor?”

“Like a bullet to the head.” Alastor deadpans, annoyed.

Lucifer laughs delightedly and takes a few steps across the room in a sashay that has no business being so aesthetically pleasing. “Hah, you’d know.”

There’s a record scratch in Alastor’s brain.

“What did you just say?” The paper tears in his fingers.

“I said,” Lucifer says slyly, tilting his head in a mocking gesture. “That you would know.”

Alastor remains mute. Surely…surely not. There’s no way Lucifer could possibly know how he died.

“Do you think I didn’t see it when you hulked out in my room?” Lucifer asks; expression between pity and vicious amusement. “X marks the spot, does it not?”

Alastor fails to come up with a witty retort, brain genuinely frozen with the implication.

“You seem so surprised. What, didn’t think I had ways to learn things about you? That your soul and your deeds left no mark?”

“How?” Alastor asks the truly pertinent question.

Lucifer laughs heartily. “That’s not how this works! You know, you are really really bad at engendering goodwill. I am freshly out of fucks to give after the stunt you pulled earlier.”

Alastor decides to rile him up a bit. “Why? You didn’t like it?”

Lucifer grins in demented delight. “What, the shadow hanky-panky under the table?”

Alastor pulls a face of disgust. He doesn’t need to put it in such crude terms, does he?

“What’s not to like? Illicit, covert, dirty – funny thing is – I never pegged you for an exhibitionist.”

“Why are you complaining, then?” Alastor pushes.

“You are so incredibly impulsive and short-sighted it’s insane.”

Alastor fails to comprehend the words coming out of Lucifer’s mouth.

“What would you have done had I actually reacted?” Lucifer says patronizingly, over-explaining things as if to someone senile. “If I had looked at you and said aloud: ‘Oh, Alastor, how naughty of you! Not in front of the kids!’” He mimes being a blushing, lovesick girl. “Wait until we’re alone next time!” huh? What would you have done?”

“I had faith in your self-restraint, naturally.”

Lucifer ignores his words entirely. “And what if I had said:  ‘Alastor here lost his virginity to me a week ago and is so desperate for a repeat performance that he’s willing to stroke my cock in full view of the entire hotel during a wholesome family-bonding event! Poor little Radio Demon, want me to rail you over the table and let Angel Dust record it?’”

The image is absolutely sickening, causing Alastor’s insides to squirm with something uncomfortably close to nausea.

“Is it slowly starting to dawn on you?” Lucifer asks; eyes wide in murderous glee. “I had assumed you wanted us to keep this discreet? If you really want this out in the open, I don’t mind. I could probably openly declare you my concubine and nobody would bat an eye at me for it, but you? Can you imagine? Vox would go absolutely FERAL. You’d be the topic of every gossip rag, podcast, and whispered conversation from here to Wrath. Lust would be buzzing with excitement over it for DECADES to come, all of their mouths full of speculation on how the prissy Radio Demon likes it– from behind? From the front? How about from both ends at the same time? How does he suck cock with all those yellow tee–“

“You’ve made your point!” Alastor growls, smashing the paper into the mattress.

“Oh no no no, I have struck a nerve,” Lucifer gloats. “The point, however, hasn’t been made yet.”

“Will I hear it anytime this century?” Alastor drawls, trying and failing to uncoil the tension in his limbs.

Lucifer’s face turns entirely serious. Somehow, it seems more frightening than blind rage. His voice is smooth and low and quiet. "I see nobody ever taught you what boundaries were, Alastor, so I guess that dubious honor now falls to me. I guess I can take a stab at it."

The way Lucifer says it is…new.

“Did you enjoy yourself while touching me?” Lucifer asks, seemingly out of genuine curiosity. “Knowing I wasn’t allowed to move?”

Alastor wants to say yes, because it’s the truth, but Lucifer doesn’t let him get a word in.

“Let’s see how you like a taste of your own medicine,” Lucifer proclaims with a snap of his fingers and Alastor feels something pull him apart and down – to the sound of rattling chains. When he manages to reorient himself, he finds his wrists have been manacled to respective sides of the bed. When he tries to budge, he finds them very unyielding. The attempt to use his legs for leverage is likewise unsuccessful; he realizes they have been similarly bound – shiny gold cuffs gleaming around his ankles. He’s chained to the floor.

Lucifer has chained him to the floor like a fucking animal.

“Oh, you don’t look very pleased.” Lucifer says wryly. He’s gloating, that bastard, Alastor thinks. “Will that teach you not to dish out what you cannot take?”

Alastor cannot strain very far, but by the Devil, is he trying his best – one shoulder nearly dislocated in an effort to unstick himself off the bed, neck extended to provide a more direct eye line with Lucifer.

“Release me.”

“Oho, a demand!” Lucifer exclaims with false cheer. “I don’t really think you’re in a position to be making any demands right now, do you?”

Alastor bristles.

“Don’t give me that insolent look,” Lucifer warns him. “Every time you fail to communicate properly, those chains will tighten by a link.”

Alastor thinks they are already pretty damn tight, fuck him.

“I would appreciate it if you let me go.” He tries for civil.

Lucifer laughs from the foot of his bed. “A threat this time? Hmm, no. Can’t say I care for it.” Then he snaps his obsidian fingers and there’s a series of clinks as each chain sinks into the floor by a link. Alastor tests the bonds and there’s even less yield to them now. If they tighten any more, they are going to be cutting into his wrists. His shadow bursts forth towards Lucifer, who floods the room with his golden radiance in response and Alastor’s shadow screeches in terror, banished back to the confines of his corporeal form.

“Did you forget the terms of our deal?” Lucifer says, mildly annoyed. “Let’s walk through them together again, shall we?”

Alastor is starting to feel distinctly trapped. Perhaps playing along is in his best interests for now.

“We made a deal that I would entertain you.”

“Aha,” Lucifer drawls, clearly trying to make a point. “Can’t say I was very entertained earlier, so that’s a fail. And if you try to bring out your shadow today, at ANY point while I’m still here, I will be even less entertained. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.” Alastor squeezes out with a grimaced smile.

“Now, what was the other part of that stipulation you mentioned?”

Alastor seethes.

“That I would come to you whenever you were lonely?” Alastor’s smile is crooked and venomous.

Lucifer makes a grating noise of a buzzer. “Incorrect!” and to Alastor’s terror, the chain goes down by another link. His fingers are now forced over the edge of the bed, which he grips impotently.

“Care to rephrase that?” Lucifer inquires, full of feigned benevolence.

Alastor thinks back to the wording and realizes the error. Drat.

“The deal was…that whenever you were lonely, you would let me know.”

“Correct! Give the man a prize!” Lucifer addresses a nonexistent audience animatedly. “And did I? Did I let you know any such thing?”

Hah! He ignored Alastor for a full week!

“No, you did not,” Alastor concedes, bitter despite himself.

“You know, gotta love the fact that you’re only capable of being civil when completely backed into a corner. Incredible!” The sarcasm is palpable. “Instead of manipulating me under my daughter’s nose, and in full view of everyone, do you know what you could have done instead – if you were a normal person?”

“Enlighten me,” Alastor hisses out before the chains snap once more, the metal cuffs digging into his wrists most uncomfortably. This is starting to feel like a medieval rack at this point.

“I love the fact that you prefer being treated with respect, but are utterly incapable of reciprocating it –even if your life depends on it.”

Life?

“Not allowed to kill me, remember?” Alastor reminds him.

Lucifer starts laughing like Alastor has just said a deeply amusing dad joke. Then he bends forward and grips Alastor’s shins with both hands. The touch is deliberately uncomfortable in more than one way.

“Is death really the worst thing you can imagine happening to you?”

Alastor eyes widen, unbidden. He recalls the threat of public humiliation from earlier and has to admit that such a fate might indeed be worse than death in some aspects – not that he’s ready to admit it to anyone, least of all Lucifer.

“Ah, but death is so final.”

“This is hell,” Lucifer murmurs seductively. “The punishment is meant to be eternal.”

In Alastor’s humble opinion, Hell is wonderful. No laws against depravity, survival of the fittest – so many evil and disrespectful souls he can dispatch with impunity – it’s really quite swell. He is certain he would be bored to death in Heaven. “I concede your point.”

“How gracious of you.” Lucifer smiles and finally, FINALLY takes his hands off of Alastor. “Now that we’re finally back on the same page, let me ask again – what should you have done instead of molesting me back there?”

Alastor’s immediate thought was that he should have done much worse. He knows better not to say it, though. Not with Lucifer so wound up. Ah, he did a good job of that, at least.

“Should I have said ‘pretty please’?” Alastor bats his eyelashes.

“Wow.” Lucifer says, unimpressed. “So close to getting it, but you still manage to weaponize basic decorum against me. I guess I should be impressed by your audacity, if nothing else?” With a snap of his fingers, the chains sink by another link and Alastor lets out a small cry. All the joints in his arm feel stretched past the point of comfort, and his legs aren’t faring much better either. The music on the radio wavers with interference.

It hurts, damn it. Alastor prefers to pop his own joints, not this – whatever this is supposed to be. Punishment, presumably.

“This is why I called you an idiot – you never learn.”

Alastor bares his teeth. If he could, he would rip Lucifer’s throat out.

“Instead of approaching me in private and going – ‘Hey, Lucifer, I really enjoyed coffee the other day, mind inviting me for a cup?’ or even the more brazen approach of ‘Wanna fuck?’ would have gotten you much further than the shit you decided to pull.” Lucifer shakes his head. “But that thought didn’t even cross your mind, did it?”

For the second time this evening, Alastor feels caught out.

“I hate being right.” Lucifer sighs. “Well, you wanted my attention, you have it. Is it everything you hoped it would be?”

Alastor is forced to speak the truth. “Not really.”

Lucifer looks genuinely proud for a moment. “Honesty is refreshing, don’t you think? Was that really so hard?”

Alastor misses their previous encounter more and more with each passing moment. He preferred Lucifer more discomposed. This Lucifer is something Alastor has difficulty dealing with.

“Now, as Charlie once said, ‘it starts with sorry’?”

Alastor frowns. “You want me to apologize?”

“Why, is that beneath you?” Lucifes asks, teeth gleaming in the dim light cast by the fireplace.

Alastor wants to say that yes, it very much is. Besides, it’s kind of difficult to apologize when one regrets nothing.

“Oh, darling,” Lucifer drawls. “I know how prideful you are – you ended up here for a reason.”

“Then why make me apologize?” Alastor asks, and for once, the question is a genuine one.

Lucifer flashes an unrepentant grin. “Because you absolutely hate it?”

Ah – a repayment for the humiliation suffered earlier? Alastor supposes he can understand that.

“And if I’m not inclined to do so?”

“Oh, come now, confession is good for the soul!”

“Perhaps for the sheep.”

“Aw, and you’re no sheep.” Lucifer says in a sickeningly cutesy way.

“Precisely,” Alastor rebukes him.

“Of course not,” Lucifer points out mildly. “You’re a deer!” Another sly smile crosses Lucifer’s face. “A prey animal.”

The irony wasn’t lost on Alastor, but he made it his own over the years. The inherent weakness of that particular herbivore wasn’t something people associated with him any longer, and he had worked very hard to make it that way.

“A buck, technically.” Alastor says simply to be persnickety.

Lucifer snaps. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Alastor growls. How dare Lucifer bring her into this?

“I at least had a loving mother.”

Lucifer sucks in a breath through pursed lips. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“I don’t know, is it?” Alastor’s eyes gleam malevolently in the quiet of the room. “At least my own father didn’t manage to throw me out of my house.”

Lucifer’s mouth drops open, expression equal parts incredulous and amused. “Are you incapable of understanding that actions have consequences? Or did you let your meager successes get to your head?”

Alastor takes offense.

“I warned you,” Lucifer reminds him. “You need a muzzle for that big mouth of yours.”

“No!” Alastor snarls, but the moment he moves, a constricting contraption appears over his mouth, tight straps digging into the back of his head and neck. He levels Lucifer with a glare of pure outrage.

“Mmm,” Lucifer makes an appreciative noise. “As I thought, it suits you.”

Having his own words thrown into his face like that is quite upsetting, if Alastor is honest with himself.

“Whatever should I do with you?” Lucifer ponders aloud as he paces on the rug in front for Alastor’s bed.

“Let me go if I promise to behave?” Alastor offers, only half joking.

“Ah, have we passed on to bargaining already?” Lucifer needles. “I like it better than threats… But unluckily for you, I don’t think the lesson has fully sunk in yet.” Lucifer says with regret and sits down on the left side of Alastor’s bed, safely out of reach of Alastor’s claws (and teeth). Lucifer brushes the hair out of Alastor’s face almost tenderly. “You’re sweating, sweet pea. Are you aware of that?”

Alastor takes stock and is startled when he realizes that Lucifer’s observation is correct – his skin is damp and clammy. Is he having a panic attack? Even the thought of it sends his mind reeling – to be seen by Lucifer in a state of genuine distress and vulnerability; is there a less desirable outcome than that?

Lucifer’s expression loses some of its edge. “Breathe, Alastor.”

Alastor fails to comprehend the instructions. Breathe? He IS breathing.

“What you’re doing is called hyperventilating, darling. Slow down before you give yourself a heart attack.”

 Alastor wheezes out a terse “Fuck you” between rushed, agonizing breaths.

Lucifer sighs. “You could have, you know? Had you just been a bit more patient. How was I supposed to know you wanted more?”

Alastor levels Lucifer with a devastating glare. “We had a deal.”

“Yeah, that I was supposed to initiate – not the other way around.”

Alastor can’t breathe, lungs seizing painfully on each shallow inhale. “It–worked–didn’t it? Got your attention–just fine.”

“And what did you want when you got my attention?” Lucifer asks with the patience of a saint, his fingers carding through Alastor’s hair as if he were a child sick with fever getting soothed by a parent.  In itself, it’s more uncomfortable than the chains pulling his limbs apart.

The worst part is, Alastor isn’t sure anymore what he wanted. He wanted Lucifer to be angry. He wanted to have him busting down Alastor’s door and arguing with him, getting flustered and fire-spitting mad until Alastor took him in hand and–

And what?

Indistinctly, Alastor is aware that he wanted to taste Lucifer’s angelic blood once more, but if that were his primary motivation, why did it leave him vaguely unsatisfied?

He craved Lucifer’s submission.

“Be honest,” Lucifer says softly, “–what did you actually want?”

Alastor swallows. He can’t tell Lucifer the full truth – that would never go down well. How do you politely tell the strongest being in Hell that you want to make them into one of your possessions? He is aware, however, that he’ll have to be forthcoming with at least part of the truth if he wants to get out of this predicament with at least a scrap of his dignity intact.

“I wanted to have you again.” Alastor says; muscles of his ribcage spasming.

Lucifer laughs at him indulgently and gently removes his monocle. “With that limp dick?” Lucifer points down to Alastor’s trousers, where, predictably, there’s no sign of arousal whatsoever. “Come on, we both know that’s a lie. Try again.”

Alastor despises this – being seen through.

“I dislike being restrained.” Alastor admits out of sheer desperation.

“Good, that was the truth, thank you.” Lucifer says with a nod and places Alastor’s monocle on the nightstand next to his reading lamp. Then he patiently floats the remains of the mangled newspapers into the wastepaper basket before turning his attention back to Alastor. As easily as breathing (pun not intended), Lucifer takes to undoing Alastor’s black bowtie.

“What are you doing?” Alastor is shocked to realize his voice is laced with panic.

“Making it easier for you to breathe. Now stop fussing like a rabid cat and let me take care of you.”

“I don’t want it – unhand me!”

“Wow, more truth! You’re on a roll!” Lucifer says sarcastically, not even deigning to look him in the face, his fingers deftly removing Alastor’s tie.

“Hands–“ Alastor growls, feral: “–off me!!”

“Since you’re genuinely upset, I won’t punish you for that tone.” Lucifer says neutrally, the chains remaining as they were for the moment.

“I’m not upset.” Alastor hisses out.

Lucifer’s mild expression remains. “Oh? You’re not? How about indignant? Furious? Humiliated? Really?”

Alastor can almost hear the sound of nails getting hammered into a coffin lid.

“Why are you doing this?” Alastor is disgusted with himself for the hint of desperation bleeding into his tone.

“How else am I supposed to teach you some empathy?” Lucifer cocks his head at him.

Alastor blinks, uncomprehending.

So, all of this was to… show Alastor how Lucifer felt back during the picture show? The King of Hell could try to dress it up as nicely as he wanted, but that was just revenge – plain and simple. Alastor feels his hackles rising once more. The muscles along his spine are contracting and a bone-aching chill suffuses his limbs.

“Still can’t breathe, huh? I’m not even doing anything to you.”

“Aside from – these chains?”

“A preventative measure,” Lucifer shrugs. “Can’t have you clawing my eyes out, can I?”

Alastor bites his tongue, blood that tastes like swamp water swelling up in his mouth. If his gaze could kill, Lucifer would be a charred smear on his wall by now.

“I will unbutton your coat, is that ok?”

Alastor’s response is an emphatic: “No.” 

“Ok,” Lucifer puts his hands up and away from his person. “This is a clear example of boundaries. You don’t want to be touched, correct?”

“What gave it away?” Alastor says snarkily, straining against his bond like an animal caught in a trap.

“Ok, touch is your boundary, then. I won’t touch you until you say I may.”

“Hah!” Alastor convulses. “Unlikely!”

“Now, what do you want me to do reduce your discomfort? Opening up your coat is out? I could do it without touching you.”

“I said no!”

“Right. No touch at all, whether physical or ethereal, and no messing with your clothes. Got it.” Lucifer settles down, still sat next to Alastor, but an acceptable distance away. “Tell me what I can do to help you.”

Alastor snarls, wild-eyed. “Take these things off!”

“Look, if I do, you’ll lash out and someone will end up injured, I don’t want that. But here, I can loosen them–” Lucifer says levelly and three links re-emerge out of the floor. “–is that better?”

The relief is immediate and all-consuming, Alastor’s joints realigning into their usual configuration instead of being strained to the point of injury.

“Shit, you cut your wrists.” Lucifer observes, and Alastor glances at his hands for the first time. Sure as Hell, there’s an angry chafed line cut into his skin. Lucifer raises his fingers and then stops himself. “Am I allowed to heal that?”

“You put it there, why are you pretending to be all pleasant now?” Alastor says angrily.

“Because I didn’t go into this trying to injure you, you ass! I had no idea you’d get a panic attack over it.”

“Excuses.” Alastor says venomously.

“You’re making it really hard to lead by example – I want to throttle you most of the time.”

“Why did you agree to our deal then?” Alastor asks, expecting Lucifer to implode in front of his eyes.

The question gives Lucifer pause. His expression turns confused, then wistful. The silence stretches between them like a reprieve.

“Boredom?” Lucifer says with a shrug. “The chance to feel something after being cooped up alone for decades? Hell if I know.”

Alastor stills on the bed. Lucifer is being honest.

And Lucifer being honest can only mean one thing.

There’s a chink in his armor that Alastor can use to free himself from this unfavorable position, provided he gives Lucifer more of what he wants to hear.

It’s worth a try.

“I will let you heal it.” Alastor speaks softly.

Lucifer looks up at him, genuinely surprised. “Really?” Then Lucifer’s expression falls. “What are you expecting in return for that magnanimous favor, huh?”

Alastor wants to say – your blood, your crown, but stops himself.

“Nothing.” Alastor says instead.

Lucifer looks at him shrewdly, likely trying to figure out what Alastor’s game is. His shoulders relax and he addresses Alastor almost fondly. “Not making me work for it, that’s a change. Tell you what, if you promise me – no deal – just promise; that you won’t bite me today, I will remove the muzzle as a freebie.”

Alastor narrows his eyes. What is Lucifer playing at? Whatever it is, Alastor sees no reason to refuse.

“I promise I won’t bite you today.”

Lucifer positively sags with relief. “Thank fuck! I was so scared you were going to make this is difficult as possible – consider it gone.” And with a lazy flick of Lucifer’s hand, the muzzle undoes itself and vanishes into thin air.

“Thank you,” Alastor says as neutrally as possible.

“Uh, there’s just one problem…” Lucifer says sheepishly.

“Oh, what now?” Alastor exclaims in irritation then recalls he’s supposed to be playing nice. “Apologies, my nerves seem to be a bit frayed at the moment.”

“Whoa, was that an actual apology?”

“Don’t make me regret it,” Alastor grumbles.

And he WILL make Lucifer regret it, sooner or later.

“I guess I should apologize too – I truly didn’t intend to hurt you. It was meant to be a lesson not to pull that kind of shit anymore, nothing more.”

Ha! Alastor thinks, what a funny way to repackage retribution.

“You already apologized for that, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but… I didn’t apologize for what I’m about to say now. I ah, since those wounds were – however inadvertently – caused by my powers; it technically means I’ll have to touch your bare skin to heal it. Just like before. Sorry about that.” The funny thing is – Lucifer seems genuinely contrite. The fact he cares about the comfort of someone who is essentially his enemy is… amusing. “Look, I am really trying to uphold your boundaries. At least you seem much calmer now.”

Alastor takes stock of his breathing and the state of his muscles and finds that it’s true. How did Lucifer notice such a thing before Alastor himself did?

“If you must,” Alastor concedes.

“Do I have your permission to touch you?”

Alastor narrows his eyes at Lucifer. “For the purposes of healing my wounds, yes.”

Lucifer perks up; posture shedding dejection like a snake sheds old skin.

“Alright!” Lucifer wriggles a tiny bit closer, still careful not to crowd Alastor too much, and hesitantly extends his hands forward, stopping just shy of touching. “You ready?”

Alastor rolls his eyes. “Yes, feel free to get on with it.”

Lucifer smiles. “Aaand you’re back. Fine, have it your way.”

Still, his approach is cautious, as if Alastor is some easily spooked creature and he can’t say he really understands it. Permission has been given, what does Lucifer expect?

A single fingertip lands gently on the abrasion marring the skin of his wrist and in a feather-light swipe heals the wound in its wake, leaving immaculately unblemished skin behind. Alastor shivers.

Lucifer’s voice is quiet and low. “One down, one to go… Was that alright?”

Alastor finds his swollen tongue has turned to wood in his mouth, rendering him unable to speak. He nods tersely instead. Lucifer stretches over him to reach his other hand, but realizes he’s too short to manage it from where he’s currently sitting and his face flushes pink in embarrassment. Lucifer looks up at him and his voice wavers a bit when he asks: “Ah, I might need to climb over you to reach, is that okay?”

Alastor wants to point out that Lucifer could just as easily get up and walk around the bed to the other side, but the sight of him fumbling is too delicious to pass up. Alastor tries to say yes, but all that comes out is an acquiescing hum. Lucifer averts his eyes and crouches on the bed, hesitating for a moment before swinging a leg over Alastor’s midsection. The blush is still lingering on his face and Alastor wonders what the fuss is about? Obviously, it’s not the most dignified position, but surely–

Lucifer leans down, his face closer than Alastor would like, but his eyes are trained on the matching injury across his other wrist. Lucifer’s lips part as he focuses on healing and Alastor doesn’t look at the hand this time, something about Lucifer’s expression drawing him in. There’s something restrained there – a suppression of feeling Alastor can intuit but not decipher. This time, the finger trailing across his wrist comes as a surprise, the tingly feeling it elicits radiating through his arm. Alastor can feel it skitter down his spine and turn into warmth somewhere at his core.

“There, all done.” Lucifer says and looks up at Alastor, the slant of his mouth uncertain. “I’ll, uh, get out of your hair now.”

When Lucifer lingers for a fraction of a second too long, Alastor has a moment of epiphany – and what a fool he’d be not to capitalize on it! Now that the chains have loosened enough for him to regain a modicum of movement, he lifts off the bed enough to catch Lucifer off guard.

Lucifer doesn’t even get to protest, past the surprised widening of his eyes – before Alastor’s lips meet his.

It doesn’t really feel like much, lips to lips – it’s just flesh. Without Lucifer’s divine blood to provide enjoyment Alastor fails to see the appeal. But in that moment, he was certain that that was what Lucifer had wanted in his hesitation but was too principled to attempt. Alastor doesn’t deepen the kiss, and is grateful that Lucifer makes no moves to do so either. While it’s not a pleasant sensation for him, it isn’t the most unpleasant one either. The tingles of disgust that usually prickle the back of his neck are muted.

Lucifer moves away with a soft sigh and swallows. His snake-like eyes are entirely devoid of anger; as placid as an undisturbed surface of a lake – provided said lake was made of blood.

“You confuse the heck out of me.” Lucifer admits, quietly.

Alastor resists the urge to say ‘Good’. He goes with “Why?” instead.

“Because I know that…this shit doesn’t really do all that much for you?”

“That’s not true.” Alastor argues. He gets plenty of wonderful things out of this arrangement – pity all of them are unmentionable.

Lucifer continues. “You are aware that… when you said you’d provide me with entertainment, I took that literally?”

Alastor’s neck tilts on its own. “Beg your pardon?”

“I mean, sure, the sex isn’t bad either, but…” Lucifer averts his eyes, embarrassed. “I would be fine with other things too. Dancing was nice? I wouldn’t mind more of that.”

It was Alastor’s turn to be completely flabbergasted. “You expected…dancing?”

“I guess?” Lucifer tries to play it off like it doesn’t matter to him, but Alastor can smell blood in the water. “Sitting down for coffee and music…look, call me pathetic all you want, but I liked that. You can be a decent conversationalist when you’re not trying to out-compete me on every fucking point.”

“You want us to be…friends?”

Lucifer starts laughing like crazy. “Friends?? You don’t do friends, Alastor! Thralls – henchmen, yes, but friends? Come on!”

“What would you call it then?” Alastor says, supremely annoyed.

Lucifer shrugs. “No idea. It defies conventional explanation.”

“So… you don’t expect sexual favors?” Alastor attempts to feel him out.

Lucifer rolls his eyes. “I don’t expect anything, you ass. Did you think I was gonna be barging into your room at odd hours of the day and demanding you to suck me off?”

Alastor deadpans. “To be perfectly frank – yes.”

Lucifer shakes his head, expression mildly horrified. “How the fuck does your brain work, honestly? Do I look like I get off on sexually assaulting people?”

Alastor isn’t aware that there is a particular look to people who enjoy that sort of thing, so he won’t even venture a guess.

“Wow. Don’t reassure me.” Lucifer plays at being hurt, but there’s a smile on his face that belies the point. “Can I trust you not to attack me if I undo the chains?”

Alastor is confused by the non sequitur. How are those two topics even remotely connected?

“Scout’s honor.” Alastor says blithely and Lucifer laughs; his expression turning indulgent soon after.

“Good enough.” With a subtle wave of black fingers, all four chains dissipate into the ether.

Alastor looks at Lucifer curiously, as the angel is yet to get off of him. What is he waiting for?

“Ah! Sorry, I’ll go–“ Lucifer comes to his senses and gets up, scrambling to dismount Alastor.

Should he really let him leave? The kind of mood Lucifer was in had potential…

“You don’t have to go?” Alastor makes an open ended offer.

Lucifer rubs the back of his neck from his position next to the bed. “I–I think I do.”

Alastor frowns, unable to understand Lucifer’s reasoning. And he simply needs to know, so he inquires: “How so?”

Lucifer paces away from the bed, wringing his hands. He stops in the middle of the room and does a half-turn, just enough to see Alastor who is sitting in the middle of the bed, confused.

“I think we’re both a bit wrung out, any further interaction seems…counterproductive. Look… I know the deal says I have to come to you, but I won’t lash out if you approach me instead – as long as you don’t repeat what you did today.”

“Are you sure?”

Lucifer takes a deep breath and nods distractedly. “Yeah.” He turns his back on Alastor and a portal forms in front of Lucifer, offering a glimpse of what Alastor presumes are his quarters.

The sight of his back disappearing through the golden circle of light leaves Alastor feeling strange. Golden sparks fizzle out and his rooms go back to their usual greenish tinge.

At last, he can breathe.

Chapter Text

It is late in the evening, most residents either having retired for the night, or decided to make a night of it elsewhere in Pentagram City. Alastor straightens out, cane stowed behind his back, finding himself face to face with a set of ornate double doors etched with a six-winged apple motif. He knows for a fact that Lucifer is in there, as there’s soft music playing from beyond the closed doors on what sounds like an old-fashioned gramophone, the subtle crackle of it distinct enough for his ears to pick up.

He is lucky there are no residents on the highest floor aside from him and Lucifer, their respective rooms the entirety of the hotel apart, the elevators lodged firmly between them as a much needed buffer.

Alastor has a plan. Since the debacle two days prior, he’s had plenty of time to think about what went wrong in his approach. Oh, not that he buys the rehabilitation nonsense Lucifer tried to feed him – utterly preposterous; no, it is simply a fact that Lucifer responds better to a deft touch, which isn’t exactly Alastor’s specialty, but the prize is worth it.

So, this is where he stands, in front of Lucifer’s door at approximately one in the morning. Had he and Lucifer parted on better terms, he would have simply crawled under the door to invade his rooms, but he has a distinct impression Lucifer would hate that and Alastor doesn’t want to find himself in chains again. He rates the experience a solid zero out of ten.

Muffled sounds of a lugubrious piano melody waft through the shut door. Is Lucifer already in a mood?

Regardless, Alastor is ready to playact making amends if it will get him what he wants.

He brings his staff forward and knocks on the door with a series of short taps – one long, two short.

There’s a rustling sound of fabric from inside and Lucifer’s voice comes through, uncharacteristically perky: “Is that you, sweetie?”

Alastor remains where he is. He could mock Lucifer for it, but the muzzle was an effective threat for his tendency to say the first scathing thing that crossed his mind, at least until he gets Lucifer back under his control.

Lucifer opens the doors, bright-eyed and happy only for his expression to drop entirely when he notices it’s only Alastor there and not his bubbly daughter.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Alastor says in a way that hopefully doesn’t convey exactly how not sorry he is. “Dear Charlotte has taken a leave for the night, something about a date with her lady friend?”

“Ah,” Lucifer says, visibly disappointed. “I didn’t even know they were going out today…”

Alastor scrutinizes Lucifer’s appearance. No ridiculous top hat, no cane, no coat. Only his usual white shirt rolled up to the elbow, pink striped waistcoat and trousers. And most interestingly of all, bare feet. That would explain why he’s towering over Lucifer more than usual.

Bare, human-like feet.

Small and dainty, with bony ankles and not a single blemish, just like the rest of him.

“My eyes are up here,” Lucifer says flatly.

Alastor flinches, gaze darting upwards. He has no plans to apologize for looking at something freely on display.

“So they are,” Alastor inclines his head in acknowledgment.

Lucifer stares at him, mood considerably soured. “Do you have any business here?”

Alastor’s head tilts at a curious angle. “At this hour?”

Lucifer stops for a moment, then exhales. “Point taken. Question still stands – is there a reason for your visit?”

“I wished to invite myself over for a…how did you put it, cup of coffee?”

“Coffee at one in the morning? Do you even sleep?”

He’s being obtuse on purpose, there’s no other explanation for it.

“You told me to seek you out in private.” Alastor says bluntly. “This is private.”

A lightbulb flicks on behind Lucifer’s eyes. “Oh.”

“Is this not what you wanted?” Alastor asks, tamping down on the sprout of annoyance trying to grow out like a thorny vine.

“No, it is!” Lucifer gesticulates in an effort to reassure him. “I just didn’t really expect you to listen.”

Alastor lets the silence lapse, choosing his next words carefully. “We have a deal.”

Lucifer sighs. “That we do…” Jet black fingers card through lush blonde locks. “I suppose you’d like to come in?”

“Am I invited?” Alastor belabors the point.

Lucifer’s face scrunches up in annoyance. “Only if you keep your assholery to a minimum, I’m really not in the mood for your shit today.”

 “Alrighty then,” Alastor says and strolls past him without a beat, not missing the delightfully annoyed glance he gets for his troubles.

The piano melody becomes much clearer this side of the door. It’s melancholy, beautiful but passive, much like Lucifer himself. “Impressionist composer?” Alastor asks, turning to Lucifer.

“You don’t know it?” Lucifer seems genuinely surprised as he pads on his bare feet towards the comfortable seating area on the left side of his room. The floor plan is inverted, and so are their two rooms, it seems.

“Did you expect me to be a perfect repository for all genres of music?” Alastor asks as he lowers himself into a plush red brocade armchair.

Lucifer has the good sense to look abashed. “No, but… it’s Satie.”

“Is that so? Does this piece have a name?”

“Gnossienne no. 3.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Erik Satie was a visionary,” Lucifer says with conviction. “A musical prophet – influenced the likes of Ravel and Debussy – I much prefer Debussy, by the way, unless you count Bolero, of course, that one is pretty good–“ Lucifer doesn’t sit, instead opting to walk around the room, animatedly recounting his very apparent appreciation for the man’s composing ability. Alastor ignores the minutia of verbal information and simply observes. This room, unlike the one back in Lucifer’s palace, is spacious, unclutted by duckling debris, and is less tackily furnished. It doesn’t look like the room of a depressed recluse but rather a new and sparsely decorated room of a recent bachelor. He supposes this is by design, as he doesn’t think Lucifer would like his precious daughter to see his depressing lair of self-pity and broken dreams.

As it stands, there’s a large, four poster bed with a canopy; a desk with a simple chair off to the wall, one mostly empty bookcase on the wall opposite, the small seating area with a round table that Alastor is currently occupying, and a large reading nook by the window where the gramophone is perched on a spindly-legged side table, steadfastly scratching away at the record.

To the right of the seating area, dominating half of the wall is a large fireplace carved entirely in white marble. Atop it are perched crystal figurines of swans in flight, a single vase full of white roses and, to Alastor’s surprise, a perfectly preserved Atwater Kent radio, one of their gorgeous Cathedral models from the early 1930s, if he’s not mistaken.

He glances back at Lucifer, who is still merrily explaining the merits of Erik Satie, halting here and there to make expressive noises to illustrate his point as he pads across the lush woven rug – crimson and black with a white tasseled fringe.

Against the solid burgundy backdrop of the bare wallpapered walls, Lucifer stands out – like a fluttering swan bleeding out on a pristine snowy field.

“– and he died alone and penniless, can you believe it? A man of his talent? Humans are the fucking worst.” Lucifer concludes, turning to Alastor at last. The unaffected look he finds in response prompts Lucifer to backtrack, “–I mean, not all of them, but you get the point. At least he’s in Heaven.”

Alastor expected some regret there, but Lucifer seems genuinely relieved that this one mortal soul is spared eternal damnation and forever beyond his grasp.

“If he were in Hell, he could still be making music for you?” Alastor offers reasonably, but Lucifer turns genuinely horrified at the suggestion.

“Why would I want that?” Lucifer halts in the middle of the rug and stares at Alastor in utter incomprehension.

“If he’s one of your favorite composers, wouldn’t you prefer to have him close?” Alastor asks, genuinely puzzled.

“Why would I ever want someone I like to be in LITERAL Hell?? It’s horrible here!”

Alastor blinks slowly. Nope, he can’t relate.

“I mean, the air is choked with sulfur, the skies are overcast with brimstone, there’s acid rain and rivers of lava and, oh, mustn’t forget – people killing, raping and torturing each other in the streets – what’s to like, exactly?” Lucifer is panting for breath after having successfully managed to wind himself up.

“Why are you complaining?” Alastor asks, genuinely befuddled.

“Excuse me?” Lucifer narrows his eyes at him like an angry, fluffed up, yappy little dog.

Alastor intertwines his fingers over his crossed knees, sat regally in his armchair.

“You are not the one getting killed, raped, or tortured – self-inflicted kind aside – and you haven’t left your ivory tower in millennia. From what I gathered, you hid behind your wife’s skirts as she reigned over Hell and abdicated all responsibility for the current state of affairs despite being the most powerful being presiding over the wretched masses. You had the power to run this entire place – and you chose not to.”

“Wh-what does that have to do with – Lilith wanted to rule! She enjoyed it! Why would I stand in her way?”

“Then why didn’t you step in after she was gone?”

“Because I hoped she’d come back!” Lucifer screams, a sinuous, lightly barbed tail growing behind him, the sharp heart-shaped spade at its tip slashing the air in an angry arc from behind him. “I never wanted to rule over anything! Why do you think I gave humans free will? I just wanted… I just–“ Lucifer’s expression crumples and he staggers to the mantelpiece and sags against it, face obscured by his right arm. His shoulders, his back, his breath hitch.

Alastor has the startling realization that Lucifer is…

Crying.

And not tears of anger or humiliation, either.

The music reaches its end, needle scratching uselessly on its outer rim. Alastor lets the crackle persist, glued to his seat. Lucifer’s choked, suppressed sobs fill the cavernous room and in the vast emptiness of the space, in all its undecorated and austere glory, Alastor sees just how yawning the abyss in Lucifer’s soul is.

A circus ringmaster chained to the pole in the middle of an empty tent.

Abandoned by God, by his Queen, by the very humanity he freed – and hanging onto the tatters of his sanity by a golden thread that connects him to his daughter.

Alastor should pity him. Despite his vast powers, Lucifer doesn’t have a single thing he truly wants. Instead, Alastor only feels profound annoyance. To have all this power and do absolutely nothing with it – isn’t that the bigger crime? To wallow in self pity for millennia, alienate the family he supposedly loves, and allow the dregs of humanity piling up like refuse in his domain to endlessly fester… how disgustingly wasteful.

“What did you want, then?” Alastor asks from his seat.

Lucifer shudders, hair burning like a halo in the glow of the lit fireplace – as pure and untainted as he must have been before he fell. Alastor wonders whether Lucifer would have ever wound up down here had he lived a human life. Surely, with that bleeding heart of his, he would have ended up among the winners.

Lucifer wipes his tears with his left hand, attempting to compose himself.

Alastor rises from his seat and walks up to Lucifer, who looks very small and frail in the flickering light –with his shoulders hunched and head hung, his golden fringe falling into his eyes.

“What did you want?” Alastor repeats the question. When Lucifer bites his lip, eyes downcast and lost in some distant ache, Alastor crooks a finger under Lucifer’s chin and tilts it upward in his direction. “Tell me what you wanted, Lucifer.”

Lucifer’s chin wobbles and a twin trail of tears spills down his cheeks, one after the other.

“I– I wanted them to be free.” Lucifer’s voice is hushed and beyond broken. “I wanted them to have agency over their own destiny.” His voice gains some of its strength as he grimaces. “Instead of being puppets enclosed in a walled-off garden – mere amusement for Father–“

Is that why Lucifer enjoys puppets so much? Is it an attempt at self-flagellation? A self-imposed eternal punishment?

“You wanted to cut their strings.” Alastor ventures.

Lucifer closes his eyes tight and nods.

“Has anyone ever thanked you for what you did?” Alastor inquires.

Lucifer’s eyes fly open, reflecting confusion. “Of course not – it’s my fault they’re here!”

“Nonsense.” Alastor states with conviction.

Lucifer blanks out and stammers: “W–what?”

“You succeeded.”

“I don’t follow.” Lucifer admits.

Alastor takes in Lucifer’s delicate features – so much of him is like a precious, cracked porcelain doll.

“Just like Prometheus, you uplifted humanity. You gave them free will. Why do you take the burden of their choices upon yourself?”

“Because they suffer in this Hell forever!”

“You only see one side of the coin,” Alastor points out, aggravated. “Heaven is full of winners. Are you responsible for their ascension as well?”

“No?” Lucifer asks, visibly perturbed. “They got there on their own merit?”

Alastor laughs incredulously and takes Lucifer’s face in his hands. “Can you not see the inherent contradiction in your own words?”

Lucifer is looking up at him like a pitiful Victorian orphan, afraid to ask for a slice of moldy bread.

“I knew right from wrong, Your Majesty.” Alastor purrs darkly.” I knew that slaughtering people was wrong. And you know what? I did it anyways – because I wanted to. You didn’t put me here – I plunged down of my own accord. How dare you take away the bounty of my free will?”

An aborted sound fizzles out in Lucifer’s throat.

“I have always been in control of my own destiny–“ Alastor hisses furiously, knowing it’s a lie, a lie, a vicious lie, “–and no one will take that away from me, not God, and certainly not you!”

Too shocked to respond, Lucifer remains mute, his tears drying altogether.

A thrill rises in Alastor’s gut. Reality glitches in front of his eyes, eldritch symbols of his enslaved soul’s pact glowing in the room and corrupting the mellow firelight bathing Lucifer’s pale skin until it’s greenish and neon purple. The static rises, the radio next to them wailing as it shifts from wavelength to empty wavelength, unable to reach a station.

“If you hadn’t done it, I never would have been born,” Alastor says, the static contorting his voice until it’s barely recognizable. Staring down, he drags the claw of his thumb down Lucifer’s lips until the cut swells with blood like a beautiful benediction. “My Morning Star–“ Alastor enunciates clearly, “–thank you.” 

Alastor drops down to his knees before the bravest and most foolish soul in all of creation. The look on Lucifer’s face is lost and uncomprehending, but Alastor knows – he knows what to do.

He pulls Lucifer down and anoints himself with the taste of his holy blood.

Atoms explode on his tongue, rising pillars of ash and destruction tearing through the atmosphere like the Armageddon, unmaking every spiral helix in each tiny cell, tearing down the mandate of life itself. Alastor gasps and shudders as he feels joy of creation extinguish like a snuffed out candle. The earth shakes and crumbles and he can feel ripples echoing through time, through flesh.

Lucifer tears himself away and Alastor is left bereft, hands extended upwards in supplication.

“My… King–” Alastor rasps and before he can finish the thought, his world goes dark.

Chapter Text

Alastor comes to in near-complete darkness, roused by the timid sound of flutes. He blinks, trying to reorient himself and lets out an involuntary groan. Something yielding shifts underneath him – a bed? His gloved hands grip the soft surface in an effort to bring himself into an upright position. Where is he? Why is it so dark?

No sooner does the thought cross his mind, the heavy bed curtains move of their own accord, tying themselves up to their respective bedposts with gold tasseled tie backs, revealing a dark room only illuminated by the many colorful city lights beyond the expansive window. Silhouetted in the purplish light stands Lucifer, his back turned to Alastor.

With a slight turn of his head, he addresses Alastor quietly: “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Alastor clears his throat – why is it so dry? He pushes past it and asks the only pertinent question.

“How long was I out?” His voice sounds disused and gravelly when it eventually emerges.

“Around three hours.” Lucifer answers. “It’s just shy of five in the morning.”

“Sounds like we’re developing a bad habit.” Alastor deadpans in reference to the last time they ended up interacting in a meaningful manner.

Lucifer turns around fully and perches against the window with his legs crossed in front of him, extended and still bare. His tone is playful and almost illicit in contrast with the trills of the harp that suffuse the room with an almost angelic mood. “Are you calling yourself a bad habit?”

Alastor doesn’t even think before it comes out – “Why, are you trying to kick me?”

Lucifer barks out a laugh, eyes crinkling in mischief. “I suspect you don’t dislike when I kick you, judging from previous experience.”

“You kick like a fawn,” Alastor quips, honest in his assessment of Lucifer’s tendency to retort with the tip of his shoe. He still remembers the pressure of that heel against his chest.

“Oh deer,” Lucifer says in response, genuinely amused.

Touché, Alastor thinks.

“Is that Debussy?” He changes the topic abruptly. His barbs are nowhere near as sharp while he’s this disoriented.

“Good guess,” Lucifer smiles, not moving an inch from his comfortable position.

“Hm,” Alastor sniffs. “I thought it sounded overly flowery.”

“Like a meadow?” Lucifer asks pointedly.

“More like a migraine,” Alastor parries.

“Flowers give you a migraine? You must be a fun date.”

Alastor narrows his eyes at the dig.

“Can’t say I recall receiving many flowers back when I lived.”

Lucifer snorts. “Can’t see why – truly.”

Alastor feels like Lucifer has missed the entire point of what he was trying to say, but hasn’t the strength to argue. He feels as if he’s been anesthetized, his mouth strangely numb and stuffed full of cotton.

“I…fainted.” Alastor recalls.

Lucifer’s nod is minute and almost musical. “You did.”

Alastor remembers it all – proving his point, splitting Lucifer’s golden mouth open, falling to his knees and–

Why did he do that?

In hindsight, he understands perfectly why he bloodied Lucifer, why he drank from his cup, but cannot grasp with a sober mind what would have compelled him to fall to his knees like a supplicant. In life, his respect for either God or Satan had been about as close to nil as possible. Any God who created a world where people could do every single unimaginable atrocity and wash their mouth out with nothing but praise to HIM was not a world he could respect. In a way, he had been glad to discover Hell was reality and not just myth – as it allowed him to continue his life’s work in peace. Now, Alastor knows he is no saint (nor would he wish to be), but he has principles. The weak, the vulnerable – Alastor doesn’t bother them (or with them, really), but there are so many beings in Hell who have no such compunctions, no values that would elevate them above mindless animals.

Alastor may relish a good bout of well-deserved violence, but he doesn’t kill every idiot who crosses his path – Sir Pentious being one such example. Why would he kill such an entertainingly silly man with delusions of grandeur and misplaced faith in his engineering genius? Alastor has always appreciated a spot of bravado and a flair for the dramatic.

Like draws like.

“How are you feeling?” Lucifer asks, his white clothing reflecting the various mismatch of neon city lights. The muted colors caress Lucifer’s form like a shroud of twilight.

Alastor blurts out a startlingly frank and genuine sentiment. “Drugged.”

Lucifer says nothing, observing him in a patient, almost detached manner. “I suspect you were.”

“Come again?” Alastor quirks his neck at an angle that would sever the spinal cord of most mortals.

“You’ve been ingesting my blood,” Lucifer states, as if that should be explanation enough.

Alastor lashes out in poorly suppressed outrage. “Your blood is an addictive substance?”

Lucifer has the good grace to look uncomfortable. “Look, the only person to ever partake in it was my wife, and the effect on her was more… amorous in nature, shall we say?”

“Aphrodisiac.” Alastor delivers in a tone that’s about as humorous as an overgrown tombstone.

Lucifer’s neck flushes red with embarrassment. “Look, before this, I had a sample of one. I didn’t think about it; our libidos – both Lily’s and mine – were fairly high and… I didn’t think it would even have any effect on you since you’re…not interested in carnal affairs.”

“You didn’t know?” Alastor accuses.

Lucifer gives him a measured look. “If I had warned you, would you have listened?”

The question is pointed and expertly aimed.

“Probably not,” Alastor says nonchalantly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Lucifer makes a gesture with his hands that says; ‘well, there you have it’.

As Alastor rights his jacket, the full implication of their exchange sinks in. Lucifer’s blood… Of course it was too good to be true. Angelic essence banishes demons by its mere existence, at least the higher order ones must. As Lucifer is fallen, Alastor wonders whether the effect is less potent.

Lucifer shifts in the room and when Alastor glances up, he’s presented with a glass of water.

“It might help,” Lucifer offers sincerely.

Alastor bristles at the thought of getting charity, especially from someone who could squash him like a bug if he wanted.

“It is drugged?” Alastor sneers and feels vindicated when Lucifer’s hackles rise.

“Do you want it to be, you insufferable little–ugh.” Lucifer groans and barely resists throwing the liquid in Alastor’s face. Some of it still sloshes across the rim of the glass, soaking Lucifer’s black fingers and pouring over his wedding band.

‘Lily’, he’d said. Endearment for ‘Lilith’, obviously. It implies a history the likes of which Alastor cannot even hope to comprehend. To spend endless millennia together – one would have to be mad. Or go mad, whichever happens first. He wishes to wash away that gold off of Lucifer’s finger and replace the shackle with his own – right around that eminently breakable swan neck.

Alastor takes the glass, gloves brushing Lucifer’s wet fingers. He doesn’t really feel the touch, but Lucifer must, as he visibly shivers before withdrawing his left hand as if burned. Alastor wonders idly whether Lucifer can feel the danger as Alastor’s snare closes around him, or whether he’s grown complacent enough to let a honeyed dagger slip between his ribs unnoticed.

He stares Lucifer down as he quenches his thirst, lamenting once again that he mustn’t drink from the source. How often could he partake without destroying himself? Or rather, how much could he imbibe without diminishing his own powers (fainting included). Unable to take the intensity of his assessing stare, Lucifer looks away; his profile in stark contrast against the perpetually dark sky.

Having had his fill, Alastor gets up and deposits the empty glass on Lucifer’s dimly illuminated and achingly empty desk.

Could he fill Lucifer up like this – overtake his vacant rooms, his torn heart? If he becomes the glue that holds Lucifer together, perhaps Alastor can remain safely ensconced in his ribcage after the stitches are done – embedding himself like a bullet and letting the tissues grow around him to make latter extraction both impractical, if not entirely impossible. He approaches slowly and traps Lucifer against the glass.

Lucifer retreats, back of his head plastering against the window, golden locks trapped in disarray. His slit pupils regard Alastor almost fearfully, yet the slant of his mouth remains defiant.

Alastor’s gloved claws tap against the cool glass, the clink of it preventing escape as surely as Lucifer’s chains not two days prior.

“Is there a way to detoxify the effects?” Alastor asks as bluntly as he is able to.

Lucifer’s lips part in hesitant increments. “I don’t know. Never tried.”

“Could it be lethal?” Alastor inquires, because as they’re speaking, all he can think about is Lucifer bleeding, rivulets of molten gold adorning his skin like the finest jewelry, lending a blush of life to his otherwise unnatural pallor.

“If you stop now, probably not.” The tone carries a warning couched in what appears to be genuine concern.

“And if I don’t want to?”

Lucifer tenses further below him. “You’re impulsive. Borderline suicidal.”

Alastor laughs at him openly. “And your rooms speak of a man that has so much to live for.”

The javelin connects and slides in as Lucifer shudders before him. “No one knows that.” Lucifer says quietly, his gaze piercing. Neither accusatory, nor surprised – a mere statement of fact – as blunt as a slap to the face.

“No one knows that the mighty Lord of Hell would happily choose to shuffle off this mortal coil to spare himself the pain of continued existence?”

“No one but Lilith.” Lucifer says coldly.

“Is that why she abandoned you?” Alastor muses. “Can’t say I blame her.”

Lucifer looks at him in ire, face full of promise of some kind of terrible retribution should Alastor decide to push his advantage.

“Who wouldn’t tire of a partner who refuses to move past a single mistake and allows everything around them to fall to ruin because they are sad?”

“You presume much, Alastor.” Lucifer’s eyes blacken, baleful gold singeing the very marrow of Alastor’s hollow bones. “Take liberties you oughtn’t.”

Alastor feels a thrill skitter down his skin like a black centipede. The warning crackles in the air, perfectly at odds with Debussy’s mellow melody. He sneers down at Lucifer, close enough for their noses to touch and enunciates as crisply as he can: “You are a waste of power – waste of intellect – waste of life.” Lucifer’s face turns into a grimaced mask of impotent rage. “If you don’t want it–” Alastor purrs, head canted in mockery of desire for a kiss. “–get out of the fucking way and leave the reins to someone who does.”

Lucifer’s expression takes a demented air and Alastor finds himself thrown backwards with unexpected force, crash-landing against the edge of the bed, something in his spine cracking ominously. Had he been alive, the blow would have been fatal.

Unbridled, cold fury radiates off of Lucifer as he steps forward, as merciless as the Grim reaper.

“Leave the reins to whom, exactly?” Lucifer mocks him as he swaggers to the crumpled mess he left in his wake. His left foot rises off the floor, lifting like a swan’s wing and jabs – lightning quick – into the vulnerable underside of Alastor’s jaw. He chokes, too startled to retaliate in any meaningful matter. “To you?”

Lucifer starts laughing, and the sound of it brings forth the image of gallows, of pyres piled up high – a rustle of bushes before a sudden, blinding gunshot–

“To a man so oblivious he cannot tell when he’s hopelessly outmatched?” Alastor feels Lucifer’s foot flexing as it forces his head upwards.“To a fool so blinded by pride that he cannot even think clearly?”

Alastor narrows his eyes – the last bastion of defiance left standing, along with his frozen smile.

“Leave my domain to a soul utterly INCAPABLE of recognizing emotion within itself?”

Alastor refuses to yield.

“You are quite mad, aren’t you?” Lucifer says wryly.

Alastor nearly chokes on his spittle.

“I should undo those stitches that hold you together,” Lucifer murmurs seductively. “See the truth behind that perpetually false smile.”

Alastor’s entire being floods with unrelenting terror.

“Oh, you don’t want that?” Lucifer asks mockingly, very well aware of Alastor’s opinion on the matter.

Alastor remains mute, his eyes darting around the room in panic for something, anything he can use, but Lucifer doesn’t let him. The toes jammed beneath his jaw sink further in and Alastor wonders distantly whether he’s bleeding and simply can’t feel it.

“I asked you a question, sinner.” Lucifer throws the difference in their powers and rank in Alastor’s face.

“I don’t want it.” Alastor grits through his teeth.

“You don’t want me to unravel you like a priceless tapestry?” Lucifer asks.

“No.”

Lucifer’s foot moves, pushing Alastor’s chin to the side.

“Then know your place.” Lucifer says deceptively calmly. “Just like you demonstrated you could not four hours ago.”

Alastor laments, briefly, his antagonistic relationship with all kinds of authority. Still, the words come back easily, like he’s always known them – words to a prayer he had long forgotten.

Alastor lets his eyes close and inclines his head, hair falling around his face.

“Yes–

–my King.”

Chapter Text

Alastor remains in his pose of abject degradation for an entire minute, spine burning in agonizing pain, sending fire down his every nerve. He loathes the fact that it’s the touch of Lucifer’s cold toes that anchors him to reality. He breathes, labored and slow, beholden to the occasional shudder. He resists the urge to lean his head against the cool skin, but it’s a near thing.

And when Lucifer’s foot retreats with a final brush down his chin and the side of his jaw, he whines at the loss, neck extending, like a fucking animal reaching for a spring of fresh water. The pain is excruciating, and he finds he can’t move, much like a puppet with its strings cut. The smile on his face hurts; stitches too taut to hold it up properly.

“I revoke your right to seek my company unprompted.” Lucifer states coldly, and Alastor’s gaze snaps up, eyes wide in disbelief.

“You clearly cannot be trusted to keep your word.” Lucifer’s words condemn him, and Alastor can’t even speak from the sheer agony. His shoulders twitch, arms lying uselessly at his side, claws upturned and frozen at a strange angle. From this vantage point, Lucifer looms, larger than life.

“You trampled the last bit of goodwill I had for you.” Lucifer says without inflection.

Alastor thinks it’s the physical that aches, but his stomach drops and turns to lead.

Lucifer doesn’t even look angry. There’s no tell-tale twitch of the eyelid, no unpleasant curl to his lip, just pure apathy.

“You disgust me.” Lucifer states in that same, blandly neutral tone.

Alastor’s eyes widen, something sharp prickling in their corners.

He has gone too far – pushed too fast. Lucifer’s gaze isn’t merely disappointment, but cold indifference. A raking feeling of icy claws grips his insides. He shivers, frost permeating his limbs.

“Until you have learned a modicum of respect, I will not call on you.”

Alastor trembles, cold and wretched and afraid.

“Now get out of my sight.”

Alastor’s mouth drops open on a mute, immaterial plea. He’s being banished – excised – thrown out–

With an almost lazy flick of Lucifer’s hand, Alastor’s shadow is torn out of him and the radio on the mantelpiece comes alive with a burst of static – spilling a visceral barrage of guttural, throat-rending screams that Alastor recognizes as his own voice – unfiltered and stripped bare. His body dissolves in a whirlwind of panicked shadows and is pushed through the far wall; buffeted against solid matter – past walls and elevator shafts and folding grates – only to land back in Alastor’s room in a tattered, pulsing heap of amalgamated magic and quivering, amorphous flesh. The radio in his room explodes in a shower of igneous sparks.

He wills his body to obey, to reform as he expects it to – to no avail. Eldritch symbols fizzle and pop in the air around him, their formulas splintering into particles of impotent light and then turning into fine ash which rains down on him like only snow in Hell can. His consciousness is trapped within a malfunctioning form, the bonds between his molecules stretched too far. He wills his flesh to obey, and had he a mouth to scream with, all of the windows in his rooms would be shattered.

Achingly slowly, inch by excruciating inch, he coalesces into a single medium until he is nothing but a writhing swirl of shadows pooled on the carpet.

For the first time since landing in Hell, he feels properly punished for his sins. Lucifer hadn’t been jesting when he warned Alastor there were fates worse than death – being dismantled on a molecular level (yet somehow left alive) ranks quite high up his list of things he never imagined a being could endure.

With a horrendous, bone-cracking twitch, Alastor reforms on the floor in the fetal position, cheek plastered against the pile of his carpet. His entire face hurts, and he can’t tell whether it’s blood or tears, or some ungodly combination of the two.

Unable to move, he remains where he lies, breathless and undone.

Lucifer was right – he’s an idiot, for only an idiot would be capable of miscalculating his odds of success this badly.

Wrung out, Alastor closes his eyes and passes out cold.

It takes him two full weeks to recover. Two weeks of being forced to use elevators – a fortnight of being unable to use a radio without the thing broadcasting wounded cries that sound too real for comfort. Fourteen days of avoiding Lucifer, and most people in general. He is too raw for company, like a rattling bag of bones dragged behind a galloping horse.

He spent two full weeks shuddering at the sound of Lucifer’s care-free laughter whenever Charlie was with him.

Charlie, who has approached him twice in that time, vaguely concerned, only for him to put on his best performance yet and assuage her that he was his usual chipper self and merely dissatisfied by his recent morning coffee or freshness of venison.

He feels like a leper, shunned by the community. He is aware it is an entirely irrational sentiment, as nobody bar Lucifer is treating him any differently, but he feels like an open wound still, and worse-off than he felt after nearly being killed by Adam. If all of humanity sprung from those loins, small wonder they were all fucked in the head.

Instead of laying blame at Lucifer’s feet, in Alastor’s not-at-all humble opinion, the fault lay with the heavenly Creator who thought – in his infinite wisdom – that a misogynist, classless pig like Adam made for a perfect template to build a new race out of. No wonder Lilith fled with Lucifer.

Anger wells inside him, sudden and unexpected.

He had been so close – so close to obtaining Lucifer’s trust.

Why the hell couldn’t he have let the matter drop?

For days, he imagines a different outcome – one where he had flattered Lucifer instead of antagonizing him. Had he asked Lucifer to help him find a solution for his desperate thirst, would the angel have obliged?

He should have employed the tried and tested method of sealing Lucifer’s lips with a kiss. At least that never seemed to particularly aggravate him.

Heck, Alastor would settle for being kicked in the shin daily. He would happily make a pilgrimage to Lucifer’s rooms and drink his delectable coffee and listen to his milquetoast taste in music with a civil smile. He wouldn’t insult the sparseness of this room, nor the clutter in the other.

If it came down to it, Alastor would even be willing to go through the indignity of having to apologize, but Lucifer isn’t showing the slightest interest in even as much as a perfunctory daily greeting, let alone groveling conversations. As per the terms of their original deal, Lucifer holds all the cards, and the decision regarding their next meeting lies solely in his callous black hands.

Whoever said that the opposite of love isn’t hate, but rather indifference, was absolutely correct. As proven, Alastor could work with hate. It was love and indifference that were giving him trouble – the former he didn’t hold in high regard, and the latter was giving him insomnia.

Being left waiting this long had to be a punishment, of that much Alastor was certain.

What if…

What if Lucifer never called on him again?

Death may have been too final for his tastes, but an eternity away from the most entertaining being he has ever met… how unbearably awful that would be?

Alastor cannot even loiter around the communal areas anymore, as Lucifer can always be counted upon to be present, engaging in some inane activity for the purposes of rising in his daughter’s estimation.

Alastor is absolutely disgusted. They all look at Lucifer like he’s a silly, scatter-brained absentee parent, when the truth is much darker and infinitely bleaker than that. How would Charlie react if she knew her father was contemplating suicide – and she was his only deterrent? What kind of face would she make if she knew Alastor enjoyed inflicting wounds on her precious father’s pristine skin, only to lap up the liquid perfection left in the wake of his claws?

To know that he had, albeit temporarily, managed to displace Lilith?

How did Lilith have Lucifer? In what ways did she make him moan and scream – there was a leash; surely that wasn’t the only thing at her disposal. The vision he bore witness to, of Lucifer blissed out and perfectly content torments his sleepless nights. Now he will never get the chance to bind Lucifer’s hands in Lilith’s abandoned night dress and fuck the very memory of it out of his mind.

The hotel has turned into a prison, not even Niffty’s boundless energy can animate him these days.

The only person he dares seek out – his only true confidant – is Rosie; her effervescent personality a welcome reprieve from the icy indifference he’s being subjected to each day.

She greets him with her usual gracious cheer and ushers him along to her parlor, fussing over his haggard appearance and serving him coffee with a tray of small canapés in case he gets peckish. 

In the corner, her Edison phonograph is merrily playing Arthur Collins’ best, a perfectly jaunty tune with lyrics to match.

“You look like skin and bone, Alastor! Have you been skipping breakfast?”

Alastor remains mute, fixated on the food so carefully prepared for his sake, and tasting only ash on his gums.

“Oh dearie me, what’s the matter?” She says with genuine worry and sits next to him, her familiar face more comfort than he’s had since Lucifer performed an exorcism on him. Unbidden, Alastor shudders, his smile weak and unconvincing.

“Something happened.” Rosie concludes. That’s one of the things he’s always appreciated about her – she could always reach accurate conclusions despite minimum input. He is relieved that now seems to be no different.

“You’re shivering; let me bring you a nice warm blanket.” She jumps straight into action, her skirts trailing behind her like a small whirlwind in her frantic, yet still perfectly poised wake. She drapes a blanket over his shoulders daintily, without touching a single hair on his head.

Truly a marvel, this woman.

“There, now that we’ve got you all tucked in, won’t you tell your old friend Rosie what’s the matter?”

She sits back down next to him and fusses with her skirts, giving him precisely the kind of space he needs to simply breathe without fear for a moment.

Alastor’s fingers claw the ends of the blanket, wrapping himself up more tightly.

“Who was it?” She inquires gently. “Zestial?”

Alastor shakes his head, staring into space.

“Ah, he knows better than to pick a fight with you, careful old gentleman that he is. Surely the Vees aren’t giving you any trouble – you never know with lovers scorned!”

Alastor snorts. The Vees have never been any trouble. Except Vox, who had to ruin a perfectly decent working relationship by catching venereal inclinations.

“You’ve not really made any enemies in the other Rings, have you?”

Alastor sighs.

“That doesn’t leave me many options, darling.” Rosie says genially, picking up her cup of coffee and dipping a severed finger into it.

The truth is, there aren’t many that can match Alastor, not even after his seven year absence.

After polishing off her snack, she dabs at her mouth with a lacy handkerchief. With a careful sip, she gives him a wry look. “It’s not like you stepped on Lucifer’s toes, have you?”

It is meant to be a joke and Alastor knows it, but he truly wasn’t prepared to be confronted with an accurate guess this early. Or at all. The traitorous tremor in his spine gives him away as he hunches in on himself like a terrified child, ears flopping flatly on top of his head.

Rosie’s cup clinks onto the table with a small rattle.

“Oh, Alastor.” She says simply, without making any sort of judgment. “Ruffled the old duck’s feathers?” She asks in sympathy for his unfortunate plight.

“Apparently,” Alastor says flatly.

“Darling!” She exclaims emphatically and Alastor accepts her outpouring of support. “What did he do to you, that prideful buffoon?”

Alastor huffs out a laugh, the first genuine one he’s had in three weeks.

“He disassembled me.” Alastor says primly.

Rosie’s soft smile drops, leaving behind legitimate shock. “He did what now?” Her outrage is so pure and a balm to his wrecked soul.

Alastor’s voice is perfectly hollow as he says: “He tore me away from my shadow and banished me, half-formed, through several solid walls.”

He thought nothing could match the excruciating pain of being so fundamentally mangled, but the knowledge that he has lost any leverage he ever had over Lucifer stings almost worse.

And then there’s the matter of banishment. Lucifer won’t spare him a single glance, acting for all intents and purposes like Alastor doesn’t exist.

Like he never existed at all.

“That brute!” Rosie says indignantly. “How could he be so cruel?”

“I must have pricked his pride?” Alastor makes a valiant attempt at levity, but it falls flat.

The bear in the song roars obnoxiously.

Rosie leans against her elbow, elegant fingers resting on her pale cheek.

“I am sorry to have to say this, my lovely, but that wasn’t terribly wise of you.”

When Rosie says it, he knows it to be true. The woman is fastidiously principled when it comes to the matter of interpersonal relationships.

“I am well aware, thank you.” Alastor bristles, the vertebrae in his neck crackling.

She offers him a look of compassion and takes the neglected plate of canapés in the manner of an experienced hostess she is. “Have a bite, love. It’s all venison, just the way you like it.”

“Rare liver?” He asks petulantly.

“Aha, and peeled tongue.”

Truly, she knows him too well.

Caving under the pressure of expectation placed upon him to act as a model guest, he picks up a morsel of cubed liver and pops it into his mouth. The texture is lovely, just the way he usually enjoys, but the flavor…

It’s less bitterness, less iron, and more of...absolutely nothing. He swallows anyway but fails to conceal the furrow of his brows.

“What is wrong with these,” she looks at the plate with a quizzical eye. “I suppose I’ll need to find a new butcher, this is utterly unacceptable. Never you mind dear, Rosie will find you a treat, let me rummage through my ice box–“

“It’s not the meat.” Alastor states flatly. “It’s me.”

“This is most unlike you,” Rosie says politely and places the canapés back on the table. “How long has this been going on?”

Alastor wants to laugh. What, his issues with food tasting like nothing, or his issue with Lucifer – which was actually one and the same, now that he stopped to think about it.

“Three weeks,” Alastor admits a timeframe he can reconcile in his mind.

“What absolute torture!” Rosie clutches her pearls. “You poor thing…”

“I ingested something I shouldn’t have.” He admits to her, more forthright than he would ordinarily be. She is perhaps the only kindred spirit he actually has.

She gives him a serious look. “It wasn’t…lust demon meat, was it?” The hushed way she says it, like she knows exactly how much he would hate that prospect tempts a slight smile out of him.

Alastor shakes his head. “Oh, it’s a fair margin worse than that, I expect.”

Rosie looks at him in alarm, then gasps out: “Not the King’s daughter – surely! Alastor!”

Alastor makes a gagging noise. “Why would I ever put a hand on her of all people?”

Rosie makes an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Oh, thank goodness! Because that would get the old serpent in quite a twist, let me tell you that!”

Alastor bites his tongue.

Dealing with Charlie would have been infinitely preferable to making a deal with her father, it turns out.

“Al…” Rosie speaks softly, her mellow accent soothing to his raw nerves. “What was it?”

Alastor doesn’t want to share it. Not with anyone. For a few glorious moments, he’s had a taste of creation, only to ruin it with his own fumbling hands and his big mouth. The memory of Lucifer splayed out for him, bound and bleeding, rushes to his nether regions like an awful, calamitous flood.

What he wouldn’t give for a single drop – for a single chance to know what true power was once more?

How willing would he be to debase himself for it? Would he be prepared to crawl on all fours – lick Lucifer’s boots – wash his bared feet?

A potent swell of revulsion roils in his gut.

What would he be willing to give up for the sight of tantalizingly bleeding lips?

“Blood,” Alastor shudders, “It was his blood.”

It has always been the fucking blood.

“Whose blood, sweetie?” Rosie pries as gently as a mother’s caress.

Alastor gives her a naked look of complete impotence.

“The serpent’s–” Alastor whispers. “–from the Garden.”

Rosie covers her mouth in shock, muffling a startled cry with both hands.

“And he let you?” Rosie asks, leaning in.

Alastor laughs, because he doesn’t know. Did Lucifer let him? Or was it a temptation from the very beginning? He laughs harder, because it doesn’t even matter – so many lines have been crossed, so many bloody circles drawn that the spell was already cast.

“I took it,” Alastor growls.

Rosie is stunned into complete silence.

“I took him.” The confession tumbles from his lips, every bit as disgusting as it feels in his mind. The memories of smooth leather, torn fabric, and Lucifer’s desperate moans flood his senses. He can feel the firm muscle of Lucifer’s back on his palm, the exquisite silky tangle of his golden hair, and the teasing slant of his smile smeared with blood.

It’s mocking him.

The pull of chains and the stretch of his bones – that awkward fumble to reach his injured wrist.

The sight of Lucifer’s back turning on him.

The feel of cold marble crashing into his knees.

“I promised I would break him.” Alastor’s voice pitches reedy. “But instead… I think he broke me.”

Chapter Text

Silence reigns in Rosie’s parlor.

She makes a ponderous noise and rises from her seat, skirts rustling. She pops the lid open on her victrola and fusses with her collection of discs.

Alastor’s estimation of her truly cannot rise any further. She has allowed him to fall apart in peace, with no unnecessary commentary or unneeded fuss. She is truly one of the most considerate and perceptive individuals he’s had the good fortune to meet.

The crackle of the needle suffuses the air and a saccharine, old-fashioned melody begins to play. Why would she choose such a pointlessly melancholic tune of heartbreak and woe?

“I enjoy the Haydn Quartet just fine, but couldn’t you have put on one of their better ones?”

“Hush now, this is my thinking music,” Rosie chides him like she softest pat upon the bum. “Not everything’s for you.”

Alastor takes her point. She is an equal participant in this conversation, and he did come here for consolation and advice. Rosie hums as she putters about the room, dusting off a couple of her knick-knacks.

“A temporary setback,” she states humorously, “And one that can be remedied, provided you are willing.”

“I would be grateful for any advice you could impart,” Alastor admits. Rosie comes very well recommended and her expertise is not to be denied.

“Very well, then!” She clasps her hands in enthusiasm. “Let us keep this simple and to the point, I know how much you dislike having your time wasted, dearie – oh, don’t give me that look – you know it’s true,” she continues on without paying him much heed. “The most important thing to ascertain here are your goals, darling.”

“My goals?” Alastor blurts out flatly.

“Yes!” Rosie exclaims cheerfully. “What do you want out of this…entanglement of yours? Do you wish to put it past you and move on with your life as confidently as you’ve been doing so far? Or do you wish to…rekindle this connection you’ve made?”

How kind of her to outline every option so tactfully.

Rekindling makes it sound so violent. Or maybe that is just his terror speaking.

“I wish to no longer aggravate him.” ‘Quite as much’ is wisely left unspoken.

Rosie gives him an inscrutable look, then turns to look at herself in a mirror as she fixes her hat.

“Quite the predicament,” she muses. “There is a remedy, however.”

“Is there?” Alastor asks skeptically.

“Of course there is!” She assures him breezily. “You’re not the first man in history to incur their partner’s displeasure!”

Displeasure was quite the euphemism to employ in this case, but he let the matter lie.

“I may have been… somewhat careless in my choice of words.”

It was always his words that got him into trouble. Actions taken afterwards were ever an attempt to make his issues disappear. Pity he had no such option when it came to Lucifer – the angel was not very likely to be killed by the likes of Alastor (a fact he resented, thank you very much).

“Tactlessness? Whatever did you say to him?”

“Ah.” Alastor says poignantly, still wrapped in Rosie’s warm blanket. “I may have insinuated he was unfit to rule?”

Rosie laughs, genuinely amused. “We all know it’s the truth, but you can hardly always speak such things aloud, especially in front of the person in question! You know that, darling. A bruised ego is no small matter!”

Not a small matter, but it came in such a small and deceptively unassuming package. 

“He’s not at all how he portrays himself.” Alastor thinks aloud.

“Hardly anyone is, dear. That’s the very foundation society is built upon!”

Alastor assumes that’s true. Every person employs masks to present a more appealing façade and he is no exception.

“What do you want with him, Alastor?” She asks gently, as if she were swaddling him to sleep.

The nauseating love ballad grates on his frayed nerves.

 “I want to eat him alive,” Alastor mutters, voice nearly feral. “I want to string him up and rake my hands over his bare back until he’s screaming my name.”

Rosie gives him a queer look.

“I want to have him look at me until I am branded onto his retinas like a cataract.”

Rosie turns around demurely and starts organizing her disc collection. It is meticulous and considerate, and Alastor shudders in his seat.

The saccharine sweet voice croons:

Sweet Adeline,

My Adeline,

At night, dear heart,

For you I pine.

In all my dreams,

Your fair face beams.

Alastor voice crackles with radio static, antlers sprouting out of his head. “I want to crawl into his ribcage and drown in his blood.”

Rosie halts and remains unmoving for a long moment, before heading back towards her victrola and removing the needle from the disc. Alastor hangs his head and grabs fistfuls of his hair, eyes wide and anguished. “I can’t stop now; he was so close – I almost had him in my grasp!”

Rosie slowly makes her way back to the couch and takes a seat next to him.

“Alastor,” She asks as delicately as she’s able. “Is it possible…that you may have developed some kind of…feelings for him?”

Alastor’s head snaps up and he gives her an outraged look. “Feelings?” he snarls.

“Now, now– no need for that tone with me, mister!” She giggles, unaffected by his threat. “Besides, feelings can be a lot of different things – jealousy, anger, fear…  Respect, even?”

Alastor bares his teeth in a growl. “He deserves no such thing!”

“Ah, but we don’t tend to want such visceral things from people we feel nothing for.” Rosie says shrewdly. “Now, is there anything you dislike about him in particular?”

“He’s weak,” Alastor spits out. “He runs away from his problems and allows them to grow out of proportion to the point they seem insurmountable.”

“Anything else?” Rosie inquires.

“His taste in music is abominable. All soppy and mellow, just like his sense of responsibility.”

“You resent him?”

“All that power at his disposal and he uses it for parlor tricks!”

“This upsets you.”

“Of course it does.” Alastor huffs in annoyance. “He was born with infinite privilege and he squandered it. And he cannot even take pride in his greatest accomplishment despite literally being cast out for it!”

“You feel very strongly about this,” Rosie notes and picks up her abandoned cup of coffee. “Does he have any redeeming features at all?”

Alastor ponders this. Lucifer… is preternaturally beautiful, like a haunting gothic statue in a Victorian cemetery. And he can be absolutely merciless when pushed to his absolute limit.

Alastor grumbles. “He makes a decent cup of coffee.”

Rosie laughs in delight, snatching one of the liver canapés off the plate.

“Well, you have only one option, then.” She says airily and pops the meat into her mouth, chewing as delicately as he would expect from a lady of her standing. He waits for her to finish, relieved at the prospect of being handed a solution. She wipes her fingers on her no longer pristine handkerchief and gives him a mischievous look. “You, my friend, should come bearing gifts.”

“Gifts?” He parrots, deadpan.

“Of course!” She exclaims, as if it’s the most obvious thing of all. “There’s nothing better to show one’s contriteness over an unintentional slight.”

“It was very much intentional,” Alastor blurts out.

“Ha ha! Well, doubly so if it were – now, what does the gentleman in question enjoy?”

“…I don’t know?” Alastor admits.

“Right,” Rosie carries on without dropping a beat, “What does he need then? A new summer hat? A fine pair of gloves?”

“He doesn’t wear them,” Alastor dismisses, absently.

“Does he appreciate literature? A book always makes for a thoughtful gift.”

Alastor blinks and thinks of Yeats.

In his mind’s eye, he can see Lucifer’s achingly empty bookshelf back at the hotel.

“A book,” he mutters. “That’s it – Rosie, you’re a genius!” With that, he grabs her hands and lifts them to his lips, where he proceeds to bestow upon them a resounding kiss. “I know what to do now.”

Rosie laughs, as easily and affectionately as she always does.

“Always a pleasure, Alastor!”

For another week, Alastor scours every antique store, pawn shop, and bookstore in Hell.

What he seeks is very particular – it has to be a book that portrays Lucifer as a complex character, one who is both powerful and shares his living counterpart’s traits; as well as a relationship between Lucifer and a mortal soul. Something flattering, something that could serve as offering and proof of Alastor’s contriteness. If the book expresses all of his sentiments, then there will be less need for Alastor to debase himself by apologizing.

Firstly he thinks of John Milton’s Paradise Lost, but now he knows that the story it portrays is erroneous, and besides, why would he want to remind Lucifer of his fall? It’s only liable to get him mangled once more – a fate best avoided.

So onward he goes, perusing musty tomes and crumbling paperbacks, until he sets upon a novel published well after his passing – a slender, satirical epistolary affair by C. S. Lewis titled The Screwtape Letters. The format of it is amusing, a series of letters exchanged by a fictitious elder demon to his novice nephew with advice on how to best tempt and corrupt mortals. Still, it isn’t quite what he is after; as this book is clearly a mockery of Hell in general and thinly veiled Christian propaganda under a humorous guise. Alastor puts the book down in disgust and waves away the churned-up cloud of dust dropping it produced.

He needs something better… something that can show Lucifer that Alastor has no intention of antagonizing him (at least for the moment) and as he scours the titles in the “Hell – Fiction” category, a spine catches his eye. The book is old, none of this newfangled trash made of coarse paper and mangy glue, and its binding is firm brown leather with a lightly gilted spine. The title grabs his attention at once, only marginally faded gold lettering proclaiming:  PRIVATE MEMOIRS OF A JUSTIFIED SINNER; with the gold embossed year of 1824 in the bottom-most section of the spine. Alastor pulls the book out and is faced with faded green marbled paper boards on both covers.

With muted excitement, he opens the title page.

A first edition, penned by one James Hogg.

He is sucked into the story from the very first sentence, the editor’s narrative providing crucial context on the novel’s setting – late 17^th century, Scotland. A tale of a family, a sordid affair, a deranged religious woman who drives her new husband away with her zealotry only to take carnal comfort in her preacher! Why, Alastor is only a few pages in, but the language is both witty and acrimonious, the author’s stance on hypocrisy of overly radical Christians quite clear. A child is born, shunned by the lady of the house for, presumably, being fathered by her husband. A second child is born to the priest and all of them are cast out by the lord of the house, except his firstborn and namesake, George.

The cast out son is taken in as a ward of his bastard father, a horridly unyielding and hypocritical man who teaches his son Robert to be as single-minded in his beliefs as himself.

Now, the true intrigue begins when the novel finally introduces a presence of a clearly demonic persuasion which proceeds to masterfully entrap Robert Wringhim within his own futile arguments on Salvation.

The being is masterful, manipulating the young man so blinded by his fear of condemnation that he gets him to commit a whole slew of horrific betrayals, culminating in several murders, each one grislier than the next.

Alastor relishes the deluded holy man’s ardent belief that he is becoming a crusader for God when in fact, he is clearly dealing with a devil, one that Alastor very much suspects is supposed to represent Lucifer himself.

The tale of ruination is so viscerally compelling that Alastor shivers in delight. The sinner is so far gone that he discounts each instance of his mysterious benefactor and mentor behaving in a clearly supernatural manner, changing guises in front of him often. His demonic companion has a silver tongue, an oppressive demeanor and is a very accomplished shape-shifter. Unbidden, Alastor’s mind makes the connection to the real Lucifer, who can be all those things, if only very infrequently.

Oh, what a cunning demon this Hogg writes of – using each opportunity to burrow under his victim’s skin; how he turns the man against his own brother and father, driving him to fratricide.

And then, after nearly a hundred pages, the blinded protagonist (or is it antagonist?) finally asks the most pertinent question Alastor has eagerly been waiting for this entire time –

I inquired the next day what his name was; as I said I was often at a loss for it, when talking with him. He replied that there was no occasion for any one friend ever naming another, when their society was held in private, as ours was; for his part he had never once named me since we first met, and never intended to do so, unless by my own request. "But if you cannot converse without naming me, you may call me Gil for the present," added he, "and if I think proper to take another name at any future period, it shall be with your approbation."

"Gil!" said I. "Have you no name but Gil? Or which of your names is it? Your Christian or surname?"

"Oh, you must have a surname too, must you!" replied he. "Very well, you may call me Gil-Martin. It is not my Christian name; but it is a name which may serve your turn."

"This is very strange!" said I. "Are you ashamed of your parents that you refuse to give your real name?"

"I have no parents save one, whom I do not acknowledge," said he proudly.

Alastor’s breath catches in his throat. This devil is Lucifer!

He stands between the over-stocked shelves in the shop and simply savors the moment. Brimstone-tinged air fills his lungs and his eyes close in pleasure. This novel is perfect for his purposes. Exulted in his unexpectedly fortunate find, Alastor snaps the book shut with relish and heads straight for the counter to purchase it anon.

The graying, decrepit spider demon from behind the counter casts one milky eye towards him, the other a baleful green behind a pair of wire-framed spectacles. He places a spindly white hand over his mouth to stopper a wheezing cough and in a droning tone asks Alastor whether that will be his sole purchase for the day. Alastor confirms this assertion in a most chipper way, pays for his purchase with a small tip on top of it, and waits patiently as the ancient-looking demon deposits his purchase into a sturdy bag.

Alastor thanks him with a flourish and exits the shop in a wonderful mood.

Once he gets back to the hotel, he absconds with his purchase back to the privacy of his rooms, where he plops down in his plush armchair and takes out his book once more. He reads avidly for several hours, utterly absorbed by the narrative.

Robert and Lucifer share a disdain for their fathers, and this commonality brings them closer. This sinner finds himself admiring Gil-Martin, his eloquence and fervent ideals, which anyone with half a brain can tell are merely honeyed traps laid out for him to fall into until he’s irrevocably condemned.

The farther along it goes, the worse it gets for poor, deluded Robert, who ignores every sign of impending danger, unable to resist his Prince’s many wiles.

Alastor finds the man’s obsession with redemption and forgiveness exhausting, however, as the wretch is so over-filled with doubts that his hand falters several times before the glorious deed. Gil-Martin chastises him, exerting a powerful influence each time, and by the end of the novel, Robert cannot tell which actions are his own anymore. He wakes in confusion, months having past, and atrocities he doesn’t remember being tallied against him, driving him in disgrace from his home as a mob gathers, clamoring for his head.

Lucifer utterly destroys the man, dashing every hope with increasingly oppressive lies, and drives the sanctimonious bastard straight to suicide.

The novel ends with a fanciful account of Robert’s grave being unearthed some two hundred years after, his body unnaturally well preserved, along with the manuscript of said novel. The device is entertaining, and Alastor finds himself deeply charmed.

The novel is everything he could have hoped for and more – Lucifer is portrayed as powerful and cunning; humbling and torturing a sinner into oblivion and eternal damnation as easily as breathing while also weaving an entire web around him until he’s tied up in knots and unable to escape his fate. The clever way in which Gil-Martin used the man’s own faith in inviolable Salvation is almost inspirational.

If he gives this book to Lucifer as a gift, it will send a message of submission that he doesn’t plan on actually putting into practice, but the impression it will give will suit his purposes just fine. Let Lucifer think that he’s won, that he has broken Alastor in, and while he’s relishing in his victory, his guard might drop. Alastor simply has to play the long game.

This time, he will make it right.

It will be perfect.

Chapter Text

Alastor chooses the battlefield carefully, fine-tuning his strategy until he can be reasonably sure of his success.

Lucifer has withdrawn to his rooms around eleven in the evening, and Alastor heads down the corridor with the book under his hand, staff held upright in the other; at 5 minutes to midnight.

An auspicious hour, a quiet evening, and a grand plan.

Alastor positions himself in front of Lucifer’s doors, down on one knee in the manner of a most contrite worshipper – head down, book held close to his chest in his left hand, and his staff upright against the floor. Alastor can only hope it evokes the image of a gallant knight, ready for his sovereign’s orders.

He uses his shadow to rap against the door in the same pattern he has previously. When there’s no immediate answer, he doesn’t move from his position. It wouldn’t do to appear impatient now. The other side of the door is deadly quiet. Could Lucifer already be asleep?

No matter. Alastor isn’t moving. If anyone chances upon him, he has an excuse at the ready, just in case.

He is about to knock again when the door opens up before him, offering the view of the floor and black polished boots with Lucifer’s usual heel. Alastor wills his shadows to melt entirely back into his body and waits.

“You.” is the only response he gets. He cannot see Lucifer’s expression, but the tone is eloquent enough, brimming with disdain as it is.

Alastor remains mute and unmoving, his heart beating furiously against the cool leather binding of his book, the glove of his right hand creaking as it grips his staff tighter. It is his spear, his sword, his pen. He will banish it for Lucifer, but not before being acknowledged first.

“What is this? What are you playing at right now?”

“It is no play,” Alastor assures him, and he means it.

Lucifer sighs in exasperation. “Why are you here?”

Alastor takes a fortifying breath. “I have come to request an audience with you, your Majesty.”

Lucifer snorts above him, entirely incredulous of Alastor’s motives.

“Ha! The day you address me with respect is the day pigs fly!”

Alastor has to bite his tongue not to mention Angel Dust’s little pet.

“That matter is precisely why I have come here today.” Alastor says seriously. “I have come to apologize for my previous instances of disrespect.”

“Instances!” Lucifer spits out. “How about the entirety of your conduct as a whole?”

Alastor supposes he deserves that. He bows his head another fraction. “You are correct.”

“What do you want?” Lucifer’s tone is aggravated and Alastor can tell his patience is running dangerously low.

“I wish to make amends.” Alastor says earnestly.

Lucifer shifts before him. “Now, why don’t I believe you?”

Alastor breathes past the rising upset in his chest. This will not be easy. The fledgling trust he had been trying to cultivate with the Lord of Hell seems to be entirely broken.

“You may demand whatever you wish of me.”

“I demanded not to have to suffer seeing you anymore, and yet, here you are!”

“Pardon me if I’m mistaken, but your exact wording was that you would not call on me until I have learned a modicum of respect. Which is precisely what I am attempting to demonstrate.”

“You think respect means lying prostrate in front of me? The fuck, Alastor.”

Alastor finally gazes up, unable to help his confused expression.

“Oh my goodness,” Lucifer says, visibly taken aback. Alastor drinks in his angelic countenance like a man deprived of oxygen. “You are actually serious.”

Alastor is at a complete lack of words. Isn’t this what Lucifer wanted?

“I come bearing gifts,” Alastor attempts, feeling very wrong-footed all of a sudden.

Lucifer’s gaze flits to the book, then back up at Alastor’s face.

With an irritated huff, Lucifer moves to the side and flicks his hand towards his room. “For fuck’s sake, get off the floor and come in.”

Alastor does as he was commanded and springs to his feet. He’s in! With his foot in the door, things will go much smoother, though he must remain vigilant. One misstep and it will be game over.

“You came to state your case, I suppose?” Lucifer asks, standing next to his armchair, the very image of a bored monarch.

“Indeed,” Alastor confirms.

“Get on with it, if you must.” Lucifer motions to the other chair. “And please sit down so we can have a civilized conversation.”

Is Lucifer’s neck getting tired from looking up into the stratosphere?

Alastor obliges with a polite inclination of his head and banishes his staff before sitting down. Lucifer remains standing. Alastor can’t tell whether that’s a power play, or the angel is simply feeling uncomfortable in his presence. Likely a combination of the two.

Alastor places the book on the table and carefully slides it Lucifer’s way. “Here.”

Lucifer picks it up as gingerly as he would a live grenade.

His black, nimble fingers crack the spine open. Alastor suppresses a shudder.

Lucifer reads blandly: “The private memoirs of a justified sinner, written by himself…” Slit pupils refocus on Alastor. “What is this?”

“A novel by James Hogg.”

Lucifer blinks, an irritated slant to his mouth conveying the full brunt of his displeasure. “I see that. That wasn’t what I asked.”

Alastor pauses. It wouldn’t do to say the wrong thing now. As politely as he’s able, he inquires: “Would you mind rephrasing the question?”

Lucifer looks at the book in his hands, frowns, then looks up at Alastor with undisguised suspicion. “What are you trying to accomplish with this…gift of yours?”

“You enjoy literature.”

“Occasionally.”

“Your bookshelf is rather empty.”

“Maybe I prefer it that way.”

“It’s a first edition. Only nine hundred copies were made, and only three hundred of those sold. It’s rare.”

“Do I look like a hoarding dragon to you?” Lucifer asks deadpan, one of his black brows quirked up. When he sees the twitch on Alastor’s face, he gets flustered. “Don’t answer that!”

“It reminded me of you.” Alastor shrugs, trying to portray an image of nonchalance as he inspects the tips of his right glove.

“Did it, now? And who am I supposed to be in this story?”

“Why, yourself!”

Lucifer offers naught but a dubious look. “I find that really hard to believe.”

“It is about Lucifer, ruler of Hell.”

“Ha! So-called ruler, you mean.” Lucifer shoots him with a venomous glare. Ah, so he is still resentful. How gratifying.

“I regret my choice of words.”

Lucifer gently closes the book and shoots him a poignant look. “No you don’t.”

“I most assuredly do.”

Lucifer strolls to his desk and deposits the book on top of it. There a desk lamp that wasn’t there before, as well as a smattering of papers.

“You regret the consequences, not the actual words.”

“I am capable of both,” Alastor gambles.

Lucifer laughs outright from across the room. “You seriously think I’d believe that? Out of your mouth?”

The mention of his mouth makes Alastor recall things that are supremely unhelpful in the situation. Unbidden, his gaze drifts to Lucifer’s mocking lips.

“I suppose I am not surprised,” Alastor admits in a reconciliatory manner.” I wasn’t exactly…forthcoming with you.”

“Oh, and you plan to start now?” Lucifer says mockingly.

Alastor straight up asks. “Would you be willing to give me a second chance?”

Lucifer’s face is torn between incredulity and amusement as he crosses his arms (rolled down sleeves, what a pity).

“A second chance to do what? Insult me some more? I’m not that much of a masochist, thank you.”

“I can promise not to intentionally insult you in the future?”

“What about unintentionally?” Lucifer grimaces. “Besides, your promises are worth shit.”

“A deal would be binding.” Alastor reminds him.

Lucifer steps closer and stops only a few paces away. “Because you did so great upholding the last one.”

Alastor sighs. He really didn’t want to resort to this, but it seems as though he’s left no other option.

“You made a stipulation that forced me to speak the truth. You could always do it again.”

Lucifer inhales, clearly weighing what he’s just heard. Alastor’s eyes linger on Lucifer’s effortlessly tousled hair and the way it brushes his bared neck. His teeth ache at the sight. Just beyond that flimsy barrier of pallid skin lies the elixir of life. Alastor’s tongue tingles at the memory of it.

Lucifer finally heads towards the abandoned armchair and sits down. He lounges with legs spread, resting the ankle of his left leg atop his right knee, fingers of his right arm tapping lightly against the upholstered armrest. His left hand is casually draped over his left knee.

“So, what is it exactly that you’re proposing?” Lucifer asks.

Alastor raises his hand, showing three fingers. “Three questions I am obliged to answer truthfully.”

“And in return?”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t do anything for free.” Lucifer remarks shrewdly, eyes narrowing in scrutiny.

“Would it put your mind more at ease?”

“Perhaps.”

“Then I’m doing it for that.”

“A one-and-done kind of deal?” Lucifer asks.

Alastor wants so badly to say yes, but he can tell that Lucifer clearly needs a better incentive to consider the deal. “Three questions a day for the next three days.”

“Make that in perpetuity and you have a deal.”

Alastor’s eyes widen and he jerks forward in his chair. “Forever?” He hisses. “No.”

“You put a high number on your life expectancy, don’t you?” Lucifer smirks at him.

“Not many can kill me,” Alastor says proudly. And you’re not allowed to either, remains unspoken.

“Ten years,” Lucifer counter-offers.

“Two months,” Alastor haggles.

“A year or you can leave my room right now.” Lucifer draws the line, his smile smug and uncompromising.

A year… is way too long. A year is an eternity with truth on the line. A full year is plenty of time for Alastor to make a mistake in his wording and get punished severely for it.

“What happened to ‘I may demand anything I wish’, hm?  Your conviction didn’t last very long.”

“And hearing the truth from me for a full year is what you wish?”

“I would make it so you aren’t able to lie to me at all, but I have a feeling you would spontaneously combust if I tried, since you seem to be allergic to the concept.”

Alastor swallows. That…is not an entirely inaccurate assessment, loath as he is to admit it.

“Therefore,” Lucifer goes on, gesturing regally with his left hand. “I am willing to accept a mere trickle of truth from you daily for a measly year, and you’re still not satisfied?”

“Is there no way to negotiate it down further?” Alastor asks, trying to hide his mounting desperation, gripping the fabric of his trousers under the table.

Lucifer laughs, head thrown back, his golden hair falling around his face with a flutter. When he graces Alastor with his gaze once more, he feels a shiver down his spine.

“You are welcome to try and sweeten the pot.” Lucifer brings the black fingers of his left hand to his lips and bites the knuckle of his index finger in a cocky gesture. His wedding band glistens obnoxiously. “If you dare, that is.”

The way Lucifer says it sounds…infuriatingly sexual. Even more infuriatingly, there’s a subtle throb below Alastor’s belt.

“I have stated what I wanted,” Alastor says calmly.

Lucifer snorts, endlessly amused by the proceedings. “No, you have only walked around what you wanted. And now you want me to do all the work for you? “

“I wouldn’t dare.” Alastor says demurely.

“That would be a first.” Lucifer says blankly.

Alastor is fast running out of options. What would Lucifer even want from him? Alastor isn’t powerful enough to be of any practical use to Lucifer, and besides, he didn’t exactly wish to be anyone’s servant in the first place. Being an unwilling servant to one master is already bad enough; Alastor has no desire to compound the issue further.

“We can dance whenever you want.”

Lucifer gives him a bemused look. “That’s already covered in the terms of our original deal. I can ask you to entertain me anytime I want.”

Alastor feels rising panic in his gut. What else can he offer? What else can he tempt Lucifer with?

“In fact, I could order you to do whatever I wanted right now and you wouldn’t be able to refuse.” Lucifer says with a sneaky, self-satisfied smile.

Alastor barely dares pose the question.“Like what?”

“Like making you go apologize to my daughter for roping her into a deal.”

“That’s not covered by the terms of our arrangement,” Alastor says, feeling a constraining tightness in his chest.

“It would entertain me, therefore it’s covered.” Lucifer says with a demonic gleam in his eyes. “Why, do you want to test it?”

There are fewer things Alastor would like less, and incurring Lucifer’s wrath seems like a disastrous idea, considering the past month. 

“No, that will not be necessary.”

“You are aware, I hope, of just how incredibly lenient I’ve been with the terms of our deal?”

“I am starting to,” Alastor squeezes out.

“I could have made you strip naked in front of everyone at dinner, if I so wished.”

“I am glad you haven’t.” Alastor says truthfully, breath coming shallow.

“I could have made you crawl for me on all fours if I wanted.”

Alastor grips his thighs under the table, claws threatening to rend fabric. “I admire your restraint.”

“I could have made you my whore.”

Bile rises in Alastor’s throat and he forces it down, but it burns; it burns so much and he wants to vomit the small amount of food he’s managed to eat for dinner.

“So, tell me.” Lucifer regards him with a look that could cut through glass. “Why haven’t I done so?”

Alastor shivers in his seat. The squirm of terror is back and he wants to flee, but knows if he does so, he will never be admitted back into these rooms again.

“Because I disgust you?” Alastor attempts to deliver it with an utter lack of concern, but even to his own ears, it sounds pitifully strained.

“You don’t disgust me all the time. It’s your behavior that disgusts me.”

Ah, that is…marginally better.

“So, would you care to venture a guess? As to why I haven’t done any of those things to you?”

Not for lack of ideas, clearly, Alastor thinks. It’s not as comforting a thought as he’d like.

“Because it doesn’t interest you?” Alastor asks, trying not to appear too hopeful.

Lucifer laughs through a wide grin, a deep and throaty sound befitting of the deepest pits of Hell.

“Oh, it interests me a great deal.”

Alastor’s smile drops almost entirely.

“But if I did all of the above, I’d be no better than all the scum in the streets below.” Lucifer motions towards the window. “I don’t do it, because it’s not in my nature. Unless someone were to force my hand, that is. Do you want to force my hand, Alastor?”

“No,” Alastor says in defeat, “I do not.”

“Stupendous.” Lucifer’s manic grin drops. “You know, I never had any plans of mistreating you. But plans can change.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

Lucifer shrugs. “Whichever you prefer? Ordinarily I’d say – whichever you’d respond to better – but we both know the answer to that.”

“I can learn,” Alastor attempts to persuade.

“For your sake, I hope that’s true.” Lucifer says calmly, but he seems unconvinced.

Ah. Most definitely a threat, then.

As far as Alastor can see, there’s only one last card to play. The discomfort it brings him is immense, but the thought of Lucifer staying forever beyond his grasp is inconceivable.

“I will… let you touch me.”

It’s the first time this evening that he’s managed to discompose Lucifer, who seems genuinely surprised by the offer. “But…you hate being touched.”

Alastor attempts to gather himself. “I do.”

“Why would you let me, then? I told you I have no intention of forcing anyone into a sexual arrangement they’re not explicitly interested in.”

Alastor wants to tear his hair out in frustration. “I am… not uninterested.”

“Wow.” Lucifer deadpans, both arms dropping off the arm rests to flop by his sides. “What an enthusiastic way to consent.”

“What am I supposed to say?” Alastor says, supremely aggravated.

“You’re supposed to be honest about what you want or this will never work, that’s what!” Lucifer yells at him at a volume Alastor is sure carried down the hallway. “You contrary, impossible… fuck!”

Alastor leans further back into his chair and closes his eyes. So it has come to this.

Entirely out of options, he murmurs. “A year it is. I’ll agree to your terms.”

Lucifer remains mute.

Alastor chances a look at him. “Unless you’re rescinding your offer.”

“I really don’t understand how your mind works.” Lucifer looks at him, utterly exasperated.

Small mercies, Alastor thinks.

“Well?” Alastor prompts, too impatient not to.

“Let me think, damn it!” Lucifer cries out, irritated, and folds his hands in his lap.

Alastor really doesn’t want Lucifer to keep thinking about anything, lest he come up with something even worse than before. The varied and rather colorful threats he heaped upon Alastor tonight are still rattling unpleasantly in his skull, each more humiliating than the next.

He needs to distract Lucifer. Or tip the scales in his favor somehow.

There’s always the music he had as an ace in his sleeve, a violin piece that might be right up Lucifer’s alley. He was saving it for a special occasion, but if that occasion never comes, it will simply be wasted.

 “Would you mind if I put on some music?” Alastor says guilelessly.

Lucifer spares him a scathing look. “You prepared something, didn’t you?”

“I might have…” Alastor admits, playing into the mystery of it.

Lucifer breathes in. “Fine, let’s hear it then.”

Alastor doesn’t break eye contact as Lucifer’s mint condition cathedral radio comes alight, the first lugubrious notes of a violin sonata sailing through the air above them . Lucifer looks away, trying to think and for a long, terrifying moment, Alastor fears he’s failed utterly once again.

 Lucifer frowns, blinks a few times and finally – listens.

“Wait… that’s awfully familiar.”

Alastor allows him to stew in it for a minute longer before volunteering the name. “It’s Tartini.”

“Giuseppe?” Lucifer’s brows rise.” The violinist?”

“One and the same,” Alastor confirms. He fervently hopes the bait has been swallowed.

Lucifer’s face slowly morphs into something soft and full of wonder. “…it worked.” He leans against the left armrest, knuckles covering his lips as he absorbs the music. “I can’t believe it worked!”

“What worked?” Alastor asks cautiously.

Lucifer swats at the air with a brusque “Shh!” and refocuses on what he’s hearing. He seems to recognize the melody, swaying slightly to it, but still gets surprised by the occasional note or chord progression. “It’s a bit different than I remember…”

Alastor absorbs the strange sentence and attempts to parse it. It worked? What worked? Alastor did some research on this piece, since it’s called The Devil’s Trill and that’s when it hits him like a ton of bricks. The story of the composition’s inception…

“Tartini claimed a devil came to him in a dream and he handed him his violin. The devil played the most sublime melody; that upon waking Tartini couldn’t accurately transcribe, and was utterly vexed by it. It is said he was deeply disappointed over not being able to capture its likeness.”

“It’s… close.” Lucifer admits. “This rendition is too mellow. There’s supposed to be more energy to it – more vibrancy. And it’s not supposed to be so…desperate.”

Alastor cannot hold back his curiosity any longer. “Did you actually come to him in a dream?”

“I have.” Lucifer confirms in wonderment. “I didn’t think he would remember. He wept for joy in his dream, I was so…” Overcome by the sentiment, Lucifer falls quiet once more, absorbed in the melody he’d apparently bestowed upon a mortal, centuries ago.

“Happy.” Alastor finishes for him. “You were happy.”

Lucifer’s smile is one of heartbreak and delight. “Yes. I was.”

Alastor cannot say he fully understands the sentiment, but on Lucifer, it doesn’t look too bad.

“He claimed he made a deal for his soul in his dream.” Alastor points out.

“Hah! No, he offered his soul, but I refused him. There was no pact.”

“You chose to inspire him instead?” For free? That’s not something Alastor can comprehend.

“He was struggling with inspiration.” Lucifer says simply. “And I enjoyed his music.”

“So, it was for purely self-serving reasons?” Alastor extrapolates.

Lucifer laughs, shaking his head. “You can look at it that way, I suppose.”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing you play,” Alastor blurts out before he can think better of it.

The violin plays a frenetic staccato and Lucifer gives him a devilish grin. With a snap of his fingers, he summons a golden violin and jumps to his feet, brandishing the instrument under his chin.

He counts a few beats and then puts his bow to the strings. He plays around Tartini’s melody, enhancing it, sometimes in major thirds, sometimes in perfect fifths, here and there adding vivacious trills, making it come fully alive. If the human violinist is masterful, Lucifer’s playing cannot be described in any way other than divinely-inspired. Unlike the composition, which is filled with romantic, heart-wrenching turns of musical phrase, Lucifer’s additions make it exultant – like a choir of demons in flight – like a holy war – like a swift and heroic death. Alastor can see whole armies laid to waste, and entire fields of blood sprouting beautiful silver flowers as far as the eyes can see. He can see Lucifer brandishing a slender golden spear and setting it loose until it strikes down the sun.

Lucifer’s entire face is animated as he sways and moves to the music, using sharp movements to enhance the slower parts, and smoothing out the frenetic ones with elegantly long draws of his bow.

Alastor regrets not ever learning the instrument himself, but it’s for the best, for no human could ever hope to match Lucifer, no matter how divinely or demonically inspired they may be.

If the original was passionate, then Lucifer’s additions couldn’t be described as anything short of pure ecstasy. Much like his golden blood, the sound of Lucifer’s music fills Alastor with something powerful that defies common sense or rational explanation.

It’s beautiful in the purest sense, like an immaculate painting. Like the first rays of dawn. Like twilight over the Bayou just before night embraces the land.

It’s triumphant – like a perfect conquest – like the unification of a continent – like the most potent of pleasures.

Alastor feels as if thick golden blood is pouring down his throat and leans back in his chair, head thrown against the upholstery as he trembles. He clamps his hand over his mouth to muffle a gasp, his spine stretching sinuously.

Lucifer’s eyes are closed as he performs with absolute abandon, like he was born to be God’s gift to mankind.

Startled, Alastor realizes he’s aroused.

Lucifer should be free.

Just like this.

And Alastor wants to throw himself at him, hands gripping the armrest so firmly he could launch himself off at any moment. The final trill echoes through the air and Alastor feels a chill traverse his entire body as the note from Lucifer’s golden bow lingers in the air like perfume.

Lucifer opens his eyes, smiling from ear to ear, more joyous than Alastor has ever seen him, even in that infernal memory that he obtained nearly at the cost of his life. He is so full of life, and light, and everything that is right in the universe.

Lucifer’s breathing is labored as he puts down his instrument, holding the violin and the bow by his side, smile as radiant as a knife to the gut.

“What did you think?” Lucifer asks, thrilled by his own triumph, and Alastor shares the only thought percolating in his brain.

“It was perfect. You are perfect.”

Lucifer blinks, rendered speechless by the unvarnished truth. For a moment, he looks so confused, as if he isn’t aware that he’s just performed the most sublime piece of music known to man, when it finally occurs to him to take in the state Alastor’s in – leaning forward in his chair like he wants to pounce and rip his throat out.

“Uh – thank you?”

Alastor cannot contain himself much longer. The vaunted truth he’s been trying so desperately to hide pours out of him like a vicious, malevolent curse accompanied with a burst of static.

“I want you.”

Lucifer’s eyes go wide in shock.

Holding himself back with every fiber of his being, Alastor rises from his seat like a wraith, willing Lucifer to cast his gaze below and see that he isn’t lying, for once.

A gasp is followed by widening of his eyes, as Lucifer finally notices.

“You wanted the truth,” Alastor says, voice strained with desire. “There is your truth.”

Lucifer flushes at the implication, something almost remorseful in his gaze as he looks away.

“Look, Alastor…” Lucifer nibbles on his lower lip in a nervous gesture. “You’re very convincing, but I need to be sure.”

“Then make the deal with me and you can be!” Alastor all but implores him, half-crazed with want he doesn’t understand and has no idea how to guard against.

Lucifer looks up at him, flustered and uncertain. “For a full year, I can ask you three questions each day, which you must answer truthfully. And in return, our original deal may proceed anew.”

“With a stipulation,” Alastor pushes.

“What kind?”

“That you must call upon me at least once a week.”

“Why the sudden change of heart?” Lucifer asks, visibly confused.

“The heart has nothing to do with it,” Alastor insists. “Besides, it was not sudden at all. I waited for you for over a month!”

“You wish to add this stipulation to our original agreement?” Lucifer reiterates.

“Yes!” Alastor takes a step forward and stops, fingers clenching at his sides helplessly. “Do we have a deal?”

Lucifer gives him a long and assessing look, drinking in every taut line of Alastor’s body, every suppressed breath, every twitch of his fingers by his side, so anxious to reach out and touch.

The violin and its bow vanish in a swirl of golden smoke.

Lucifer extends his left hand and Alastor grabs it, pulling Lucifer into himself with a startled yelp. His other hand tangles in the hair at the nape of Lucifer’s neck and Alastor kisses him with every ounce of strength he possesses. The manifestation of his powers flares a noxious green and blends with the radiant halo of Lucifer’s, who sublimates in his arms as the terms of their deals get carved into their souls. 

The Devil’s Trill begins to play on the radio anew, without Alastor’s conscious input. His fingers tangle in Lucifer’s hair, so soft and so sorely missed, and Alastor gorges himself on Lucifer’s sweet mouth.

Gasping for air, Lucifer pulls away, flushed a fetching shade of pink and finally breaking their handhold.

“Do you actually want me?” Lucifer asks, and what a waste of a question that is, because Alastor has already told him–

“Yes,” he utters feverishly, “more than anything.”

“Will you really let me touch you?”

“Tonight? Yes.” Alastor vows, the compulsion to be truthful loosening his tongue more than he would like. “One question left.”

Lucifer ponders the question, wasting time that Alastor would rather spend drowning in the scent of his sweat and blood that’s just there, so tantalizingly out of reach–

“Did I frighten you when I banished you last time?”

Alastor’s throat seizes. He doesn’t want to answer this. He cannot. Lucifer mustn’t know how agonizing it was, how terrifying to lose all control over his form and his powers, how–

–but the compulsion tingles at the back of his neck, like an immovable shackle and the words simply come out:

“Yes – you did. I have never known such fear, in life or undeath.”

He hates the truth, hates that he was forced to utter it – so humiliating! Alastor expects Lucifer will put a stop to things and he would rather have his spine broken again than leave now.

“And you still want me?” Lucifer asks dubiously.

With the compulsion lifted at last, Alastor answers with absolute conviction: “You are worth it.”

Unexpectedly, Lucifer groans. Alastor brings his hand to Lucifer’s cheek, their eyes locked.

“Please,” Alastor implores, “will you let me fuck you?”

“I didn’t know that word was part of your vocabulary,” Lucifer laughs.

“Don’t get used to it.” Alastor forewarns him. “Answer me, damn you.”

“On one condition.” Lucifer says, and when Alastor groans in absolute desperation, Lucifer elaborates: “I want your naked skin against me. All of it.”

Ordinarily, Alastor would refuse. He would leverage it for something else. He might even tease Lucifer with the prospect. But now, with his arousal screaming down his spine, he is about ready to give Lucifer any goddamn thing he wants.

“Only if you grant me the same.”

Lucifer nods. “Of course.”

Alastor’s hand drops from Lucifer and he reaches for the button of his coat, feeling like a live wire. Every movement he makes brings a realization that his skin is sensitive, as if burned, and even the brush of his usually so comfortable attire against his skin is enough to make him gasp. He shrugs out of his coat with no finesse and throws it at his vacated chair. He undoes his tie and yanks it free, tossed onto the same pile. He’s three buttons down his shirt when he notices the way Lucifer is looking at him – eyes bright and greedy, face hopelessly flushed, like Alastor is a locomotive crash he cannot look away from.

“Like what you see, your Majesty?” Alastor asks, grin wide an unrepentant.

Lucifer looks at him like Alastor’s gone stark raving mad, and despite looking outraged, he actually laughs.

“Since when can you be funny, you bastard?”

“I am the very soul of wit,” Alastor says pompously and keeps at his buttons until they’re all undone and he pulls the shirt free of his slacks.

“The–“Lucifer stammers most adorably, “–you wear A CORSET underneath all this??”

Alastor quirks an eyebrow his way. “I always do, yes. It’s wonderfully supportive.”

“And fucking hot apparently,” Lucifer blurts out and then has the crashing realization that he’s said it aloud.

“Want me to leave it on?” Alastor suggests slyly.

Lucifer looks like he’s going to self-immolate at his comment. “Maybe some other time, ok? Sheesh, you’re trying to kill me.”

How astute of Lucifer to notice.

“Get your own clothes off unless you want me to rip them again.” Alastor cautions as he slides his arms out of the shirt.

“Once was enough, thanks!” Lucifer huffs and sets about divesting himself as well.

Alastor leans down to rid himself of his boots, and as soon as they’re lying on the ground, he straightens back up to get started on his trousers. When he looks up, Lucifer has barely unbuttoned his pink waistcoat, caught up in staring at Alastor’s likely not terribly elaborate strip show. It seems to be effective despite Alastor’s lack of artistry, however.

“Vanish your clothes or I WILL rip them.” Alastor promises, as serious as mortal sin.

“God, what’s gotten into you today?” Lucifer flushes all the way down to his collarbones.

“The only thing going into you today is going to be me.”

“Fuck!” Lucifer laughs as he shrugs out of his waistcoat and attacks the buttons of his cuffs.

Alastor hums his assent as he lowers his trousers down his legs where he abandons them to gravity and steps out of them with as much grace as he can manage without tripping and falling on his face.

Lucifer groans in front of him, and contorts himself to rid himself of his shirt. Alastor steps forward and Lucifer yelps: “It’s coming off – I’m doing it! Take your fucking boxers off first!”

Alastor listens, but doesn’t take his eyes off Lucifer for a single second. The King of Hell is willing and eager, snapping his fingers to vanish the rest of his clothes until he is left before Alastor as nude as the day he was born – or willed into existence, whatever the case might be.

Alastor takes in Lucifer’s flushed and panting appearance and gets a stroke of inspiration.

“Can you take the rest off me?”

Lucifer exhales like he’s been mortally wounded and asks in an aching voice: “May I?”

Alastor gazes upon him, full of barely restrained hunger. “Do it.”

With a trembling groan, Lucifer reduces the distance between them in three rushed steps and drops to his knees in front of Alastor.

It’s not necessarily what Alastor expected, but the sight of a sweetly moaning Prince of Darkness on his knees before him…it’s something else, alright. Trembling, jet black fingers fiddle with the buttons at the high waistband of Alastor’s black boxers. Alastor pulls his gloves off at last and flings them across the table. Succumbing to temptation, he runs his fingers through Lucifer’s lush golden hair and enjoys the almost kittenish way Lucifer melts into the touch.

“Go on,” Alastor encourages.

Lucifer nibbles on his lower lip and sets the last of his three buttons free. With bated breath, Lucifer pulls his underwear down and Alastor sucks in a breath as he’s set free. The fabric breezes down his legs and drops down to his ankles. Lucifer places a shaky hand on the front fastenings of Alastor’s corset.

“Looks almost too good to unlace you right now…” Lucifer says dreamily, mouth half open as he regards Alastor in what he can only interpret as blatant desire.

“Then do it later.”

Lucifer shudders at the command and places a feather light touch on Alastor’s thighs, fingers travelling down his skin and leaving a burning trail in their wake. Alastor’s hand in Lucifer’s hair grips tighter reflexively. Lucifer makes a sinuous movement of utter depravity and before Alastor can utter a word of protest, Lucifer’s hot mouth closes around the crown of his shaft and slides down like he’s done this a million times before, moaning obscenely around every inch he takes in.

Alastor cannot help the unfiltered reaction this provokes, he groans, an animalistic noise overlaying his voice as the wetness and heat engulfs him. Lucifer’s left hand is holding him at the base, while his right is stroking Alastor’s left thigh. The silk of his hair is apparently matched by the silk of his tongue, as he uses its serpentine charms to wind around Alastor’s cock.

It feels absolutely blinding, like Alastor has stared at a solar eclipse without any eye protection for the full duration. His hands caress Lucifer’s hair, tangle and untangle the soft strands as he pants and whines, utterly incapable of moderating his response.

And whenever he vocalizes his pleasure, or pulls at Lucifer’s hair, the fallen angel moans lewdly, seemingly redoubling his efforts.

Lucifer loves this. He must. Why else would he be so wildly unrestrained?

And the truth is, Lucifer is disturbingly good at it. Alastor never saw what the fuss was about and why other men sang this act’s praises, but he can see it now.

No man could stay immune to the vast experience of Lucifer Morningstar.

And it seemed Alastor was no exception.

To borrow a phrase, he groaned out a strained: “I’m– I think I might be close?”

Lucifer withdraws slowly, as slowly as a wave upon a beach and gives his head one last lick before looking up, expression nearly drugged.

“You can still speak? I must be doing something wrong.”

Alastor looks down at Lucifer, feeling entirely undone by his efforts. “Wretch,” he says softly. “Do whatever you did before to get yourself ready and get on the bed before I throw you on there from across the room.”

Lucifer groans lasciviously at the suggestion. “How the fuck are you this good at dirty talk with virtually no experience? So unfair.” The whine is petulant and Alastor is tempted to slide back into that spit-slicked mouth, but he desires something else more than the wet temptation it provides.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” Alastor murmurs, dark with promise.

Lucifer gives his shaft a sinuous pump and before Alastor can make good on his promise, Lucifer is gone in a puff of gold smoke.

Alastor is shocked for all of two seconds, fearing abandonment at this most critical juncture, when Lucifer waves at him from the bed.

“Who’s slow now?” He says, all cheek and no respect – two can play this game.

Alastor melts into his shadow form and stretches from his position to the middle of the bed where Lucifer is sitting, waiting for him. He materializes nearly on top of him and looms.

“Mmnh, please let me ride you,” Lucifer begs shamelessly.

“Why should I?” Alastor asks unconvinced.

“Because it will feel really good for the both of us – I promise.”

Alastor isn’t terribly inclined to do what Lucifer asks, but the fact he’s so desperate for it makes him reconsider. If he wants to hook Lucifer for good, it would be in his best interests to comply.

“What does this position entail exactly?” Alastor asks, entirely unashamed of his lack of experience. If Lucifer wants it bad enough, and he certainly wants to, he can work for it a little.

“Lie on your back. That’s literally all you need to do.”

“How convenient,” Alastor remarks and lies next to Lucifer who is looking at him like a man dying of thirst in the baking desert. Without missing a beat, Lucifer turns to face Alastor and straddles him in what looks like a practiced move, none of the previous hesitation he’s displayed present.

Lucifer arches his back and places his right hand on Alastor’s still corseted stomach, his left reaching behind his back. Alastor feels something warm smear up and down his shaft, gliding along with Lucifer’s fingers.

“Fuck, I love magic–!” Lucifer moans and Alastor agrees with the sentiment wholeheartedly.

The moment Alastor’s cock is coated with something delightfully warm and slick, Lucifer doesn’t tarry overlong and guides it to the entrance to his lithe body. Alastor observes as Lucifer impales himself, face contorted in what Alastor assumes must be pain, until a whining, needy moan crosses his lightly swollen lips, offering ample proof to the contrary.

Lucifer swivels his hips as he descends, and Alastor can see stars. His hands reach out desperately to grab at Lucifer’s sinfully soft thighs, and the reaction is an instantaneous and most delicious clenching around his turgid length.

“Touch me,” Lucifer whines, “oh–please–!”

Alastor observes the rhythm of Lucifer’s effortlessly elegant movements and attempts to match it. The first few attempts are unsuccessful, and Lucifer’s expression shows minor discontent, but the moment Alastor manages to strike in perfect counterpoint to Lucifer’s eager descent, the result is a dissolute moan that could make a thousand angels plummet to their willing deaths.

“Ah–Alastor!” Lucifer pants in the sweetest agony that Alastor has ever had the pleasure to behold and he rewards it with a caress and a sharp thrust.

The way Lucifer says his name rushes straight to his already aching cock.

“I will paint you white,” Alastor says filthily.

Lucifer attempts to speak coherently, but fails miserably. “Al–already w-white, nh–!”

“Not on the inside, you’re not,” Alastor growls and grasps the muscle of Lucifer’s thigh so hard he’s sure it will leave significant bruising come the morrow.

Lucifer gasps around a soundless scream as his eyes roll to the back of his head, small frame glistening with a slight sheen of sweat, enough to plaster a few slim strands of hair to his furrowed brow.

Alastor grunts his release, shocked at its explosive force and Lucifer grabs at his own cock and comes within a second of Alastor’s own orgasm, splattering seed all over his corset.

For a few moments, Alastor pulses inside Lucifer’s wonderfully clenched body and it’s…

Flithy.

Filthy and sticky and he should really hate it.

But how can he, when Lucifer is blissed out and utterly out of it, lounging on Alastor’s erection which is still buried approximately eight inches deep, and quivering with aftershocks that Alastor can feel under his fingertips as the muscles in Lucifer’s thighs continue to spasm.

“Jesus Fucking Christ…” Lucifer pants atop him, half-lidded eyes finally managing to focus on Alastor.

“Mhm, not the savior of humanity I ascribe to,” Alastor says languidly, overcome by a lassitude oft-described yet never quite experienced (until this very momentous…moment). Damn, this activity really dulls the senses.

“Uh-uh,” Lucifer says lazily, still perched on top of him.”And who is?”

Before he can stop his stupid brain from connecting to his tongue, the words are already out: “Why, he’s already sitting in my lap.”

Lucifer’s dopey expression fades as quickly as light inebriation after being doused in a bucket of icy cold water. What replaces it is a rather fetching blush.

Alastor smiles and closes his eyes for just a moment.

He’s got him.

He’s finally got him!

Chapter Text

Alastor groans into his pillow, stuck between sleep and wakefulness. A peculiar, somewhat discordant piano melody drifts in the air, accompanied by a tell-tale crackle of a record being played. He cracks a single eye open, feeling his face half-smothered by a pillow. Muted light fills the left side of the bed, where a blanket-covered body is resting in an upright position against the headboard, peering into a vaguely familiar book. It takes Alastor all of five seconds to comprehend what he’s looking at, as this decidedly isn’t his bed, and the person next to him is not a fixture in his life in any capacity save being an utter pain.

But as he groggily observes the soft golden sheen of Lucifer’s hair, the way his elegant fingers flip a crisp page, the bared slant of his pale shoulder… it’s not an altogether unpleasant sight.

As if summoned by Alastor’s errant, half-awake thoughts, Lucifer turns his face to Alastor and offers a soft smile.

“Had a nice nap?”

Ordinarily, Alastor would meet such an inane question with a vicious barb, but he’s too out of it to think of a suitable one.

“What time is it?”

Lucifer leans out of his bed to peer at a grandfather clock that Alastor doesn’t recall being there before.

“Just after four.”

“At night?”

Lucifer snorts quietly. “Think I would have let you laze in my bed all day?”

Truthfully, Alastor doesn’t know what sorts of things Lucifer might or might not allow him to do.

“Point taken,” Alastor groans anew, burying his face in the pillow.

“You look very comfortable there,” Lucifer remarks wryly. His smile is teasing and infuriating in equal measure.

“M’sure you drugged the pillows,” Alastor mutters as a dig, as they smell faintly of apples, that supremely annoying crisp and sweet scent that follows Lucifer everywhere he goes.

Lucifer chuckles. “I’m not that desperate for your company.”

Alastor cracks a single, baleful eye open. “Then why didn’t you kick me out like before?”

Lucifer looks momentarily abashed, and returns his gaze to the book. For a long moment he says nothing, and right before Alastor makes peace with the fact no comment would be forthcoming, Lucifer murmurs: “You fell asleep. I wasn’t going to touch you – it’s not like you can consent while you’re out.”

“You seem awfully concerned with consent.”

Lucifer looks mildly offended. “Yeah, well, one of us has to be. It’s not like you were going to do it.”

“I didn’t consent to being mangled either,” Alastor points out venomously.

Lucifer grips the covers of the book tighter.

“Look… I didn’t want to cause permanent damage. I’m really sorry about that.”

Alastor huffs in unconcern. “No harm done, at least of the permanent variety.” He’s not sure he entirely believes his own words.

“If you say so.” Lucifer lets the matter drop and goes back to his book.

Alastor may be tired and marginally fuzzy around the edges at this late hour, but he deems that probing further on the subject wouldn’t be of any help in the long-term. A distraction is in order.

“The music, what is it?”

“Pièces Froides, Satie.”

Satie again? Lucifer must really love the guy.

“Cold…what?” Alastor mutters.

Lucifer hums. “Nobody’s sure. Cold cuts? Cold pieces? Cold rooms.” The way he says it is nonchalant, but the implication is as clear as a gong smash. “Satie lived in a cupboard for awhile. Slept on a cot fully dressed with all his clothes piled on top to try and stay warm.”

Alastor pays attention. This is exactly the kind of opening he was hoping for, the gaping wound he can stitch himself into.

“Are you cold?” Alastor asks, as softly as an assassin’s footsteps.

Lucifer glances back at him and his small smile looks slightly forced. “Of course not, I keep my rooms toasty.”

The deflection is sweetly inept, and Alastor gently brushes it aside.

“I wasn’t talking about the rooms.”

 Lucifer offers a wry smile and returns his attention to the book. “I know,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Alastor decides not to push while he’s still fighting off sleep.

Looking at him like this, Lucifer doesn’t seem overly lonely, satisfied to be reading a book, all tucked into his covers which reach up to his chest, uncovered arms holding the book slightly aloft. The black fades as Alastor’s gaze travels from jet black fingertips to the middle of Lucifer’s slender upper arm, where the color turns perfectly pale like the rest of him. Observed up close, it looks like a pair of long opera gloves.

Alastor wonders, idly, whether Lucifer would look nice in a sleeveless dress, something black or deep crimson, slinky and form-fitting and floor-length, trailing lightly behind him…

“You’re staring again,” Lucifer murmurs slyly.

 “Deal with it,” Alastor says unrepentantly.

Lucifer gives him a highly entertaining look of outrage, mouth open at Alastor’s daring.

“I would ask if you like what you’re seeing, but I’m not sure I actually want to know the answer.”

“You can ask. If you hold onto the question until tomorrow.” Alastor states calmly.

“Hah, and use it as one of my three questions quota?” Lucifer quirks his eyebrow, insinuating that the question would be wasteful to pose.

“I can’t stop you, can I?” Alastor harrumphs into the pillow.

“You’re aware I wouldn’t have to use such measures if you were forthright more often, right?” Lucifer points out.

Well, that was true…but how dreadfully dull that would be!

“You want me to be honest more often?” Alastor asks, dubious. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure, you ass.”

Alastor stretches under the covers (ah, Lucifer tucked him in, did he – how sweet) and turns on his side to be able to see Lucifer with both eyes. “Because the last time I was honest, you exorcised me.”

Lucifer sighs and snaps the book shut with both palms.

“I already apologized for that. How about you take some responsibility too, for pushing me past my limits? Or is that too much to ask?”

Alastor makes a grumbling noise beyond pressed, smiling lips.

“And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you mentioned wanting to apologize when you came in and have failed to do so. Handing me a bribe doesn’t count as apology.”

“Fine,” Alastor sighs. He will apologize when Hell freezes over. “You want the truth?”

Lucifer floats the book to his desk and then turns to Alastor. “Yes, that would be much appreciated.”

An easy truth that doesn’t reveal much of anything seems like the way to go.

“Your arms look like you’re wearing long opera gloves.”

Whatever Lucifer was expecting him to say, it certainly wasn’t this.

“Err,” Lucifer mutters.

“I was trying to imagine you in a slender, floor-length evening gown.”

Lucifer covers his face with the palm of his left hand, in a poor effort to conceal his flushing skin. Oh yes, compliments definitely work on Lucifer.

“In midnight black… or deep blood red.” Alastor continues in an alluring drawl. “With a thigh slit in the front, perhaps? And a pair of strappy high heels to match. What do you think?”

Lucifer covers his mouth and turns away, his blush deepening.

“Would you like that?” Alastor purrs, relishing Lucifer’s discomfort and wondering whether one could spontaneously combust from sheer embarrassment. “We could dance in this room – there’s plenty of space.”

“If this is another one of your little ploys, Alastor, you can stop playing now.” Lucifer mutters through his fingers, still half-turned away in shame.

“Who’s playing?”

Naturally, that’s a lie, but the fact Lucifer seems this flustered about it is incredibly delicious to Alastor. With but an errant, throwaway thought, he can influence Lucifer this much? Perhaps speaking the occasional half-truth has some merit, after all.

“Look, don’t arouse me if you don’t plan on following through – that’s just rude.” Lucifer pouts, burrowing deeper under the covers until he’s covered up to his neck, only the tips of his fingers peeking out where they’re gripping the downy duvet to his chin.

“Are you?” Alastor grins at him, relishing Lucifer’s mildly panicked look. “Aroused, I mean?”

Lucifer throws the covers over his head, only the tip of his golden hair peeking out and lets out a loud, only partially muffled groan. It sounds positively tormented. A delicious thrill skitters down Alastor’s spine.

He grasps the covers and pulls. Lucifer yelps, startled, unable to put forth any effective kind of protest as Alastor flings the duvet off of that pristine alabaster body.

“Oh?” Alastor notes with satisfaction. “It seems that you are.”

Lucifer buries his face in his arms, dark elbows spread outwards.

“I’ve been celibate for too long, don’t flatter yourself.” Lucifer whines, deeply embarrassed at being caught out.

 “What, ashamed to be aroused by a lowly sinner demon?” Alastor needles, savoring the peerless form stretched out before him.

Lucifer peers between his black fingers. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Alastor blinks in incomprehension.

Lucifer moves the hands from his face and casts an angry glare in Alastor’s direction. “My own wife was a sinner. Are you implying she’s lowly? I’d choose my next words very carefully if I were you.”

“Apologies,” Alastor states neutrally. “That inference was not my intention.”

“You think your breeding matters to me?” Lucifer says with disgust.

Alastor understands perfectly well that Lucifer was talking about status, but that particular word seems rather loaded in current circumstances. It invokes the image of cattle and ranches and nothing particularly pleasant.

“You seemed to imply you regarded sinners in the streets below as inferior.” Alastor points out reasonably.

Lucifer’s eyes narrow in anger. “I implied it’s their ACTIONS that disgust me, not the fact they were once human!”

Alastor blinks. “I must have misunderstood.”

“Yea, I’d say!” Lucifer huffs and turns his face towards the canopy of the bed. He throws his left hand over his forehead and Alastor notices that Lucifer’s ardor seems to have cooled during their little exchange. His fingers twitch.

Should he touch Lucifer? Or ask for permission first? Decisions, decisions…

He runs the tip of his index finger over Lucifer’s hip. It elicits a shiver and a look of warning with no actual bite behind it.

“Did I permit you to touch me?” Lucifer asks poignantly.

Reluctantly, Alastor withdraws his hand, but only so it’s no longer in contact with Lucifer’s smooth skin. It hovers just beyond reach.

“May I?”

“May you what?” Lucifer asks obstinately, even while his manhood offers signs of revival.

“May I touch you?” Alastor asks in a low tone. It makes Lucifer shudder. “Well?” Alastor prompts.

Lucifer gives him an incredulous look. “You’re so pushy when you want something, I swear.”

“Better pushy than endlessly indecisive,” Alastor says.

“Is that a dig at me?” Lucifer deduces accurately. “Are you seriously trying to convince me to have round two with you while you insult me?”

“By round two, do you mean intercourse?” Alastor asks at a head tilt.

“Duh,” Lucifer says eloquently, rolling his eyes.

“I’m afraid that’s not currently on offer,” Alastor clarifies. “My lower half isn’t terribly interested in the proceedings, you see.”

Lucifer looks like he’d love to throttle him and it’s more satisfying than railing him a second time would be, as Alastor wasn’t lying – his libido remains steadfastly near non-existent.

“What is on offer then?” Lucifer asks with irritation.

“I could give you a hand with that,” Alastor points towards Lucifer’s erection with a nasty smile.

“A literal hand? Or– ‘cause, no offense, I’m still not comfortable with the thought of your teeth being anywhere near there.” Lucifer explains, mildly mortified at having to vocalize his thoughts on the matter.

Tempting.

“Pity,” Alastor drawls. “I wanted to have a taste.”

Lucifer face flushes, whether with embarrassment or arousal, Alastor cannot tell.

“Just your hand?” Lucifer asks once he’s regained his wits.

Alastor wriggles his bared fingers in the air above Lucifer’s milky-white hip. “Just my hand. For now.”

Lucifer groans in exasperation and rubs at his eyes. “Fine!”

Alastor’s anxious digits descend on the slender curve of Lucifer’s waist and linger in a protracted caress.

“And no bloodying me in any way! If I see as much as a drop of blood, I’ll throw you out the window.”

“Threats of defenestration so early in the morning?” Alastor chuckles with amusement. “Is it my birthday?”

“I’m not joking, asshole.”

“I heard you loud and clear,” Alastor says dismissively and refocuses on the sinfully soft flesh he isn’t allowed to mar – not this time, anyhow. With how permissive Lucifer has been in the past few hours, Alastor hopes he will be given the opportunity soon enough.

Lucifer makes a swallowed noise of what Alastor presumes to be enjoyment. Alastor continues to trail avid fingertips down Lucifer’s hip and thigh. It makes Lucifer’s back arch in a delightful bow. How starved for touch must he be for this to be so easy?

And when Alastor finally caresses a stripe down Lucifer’s length, it elicits a shuddering moan.

Alastor can’t help but focus on Lucifer’s facial expressions – for every time he moves his fingers, feather-light against Lucifer’s flesh, there’s a reaction so vividly expressive that he finds himself invested in producing more of them. It gives him an unexpected burst of pleasure, just like he used to get from stalking and disposing of his victims. There’s just something unparalleled about gathering information on a mark, and then executing a meticulous plan to ensnare them utterly.

And who could be a bigger mark than Lucifer Morningstar himself?

The piano plays a discordant melody, none of the harmonies resolving in an expected direction while Lucifer fills the bed with his reluctant little moans. While he claimed he wasn’t ashamed of lying with a sinner, this probably doesn’t extend to a sinner like Alastor, who has antagonized him so thoroughly.

Alastor decides to up the ante. It wouldn’t do to have Lucifer so hesitant. By the time he’s through with him, Lucifer’s room will no longer be cold in any sense.

He grips Lucifer’s scalding length in a gentle fist and performs an experimental pump. Lucifer twitches, one of his bared legs kicking out reflexively.

“What did I say?” Alastor purrs. “You kick like a fawn.”

“That’s pretty–ah!–ironic considering–!” Lucifer trails off, lost in a lewd groan.

Alastor grins unrepentantly as he continues to stroke Lucifer, who’s trembling next to him like he’s been left out in the cold. There’s a soft golden swoosh and the cover is ripped off of Alastor as well, the fabric flying to the foot of the bed where it makes a messy pile.

“Damn, you really weren’t kidding,” Lucifer motions while staring at Alastor’s flaccid penis.

“Surprised I told you the truth?” Alastor quips.

“Disappointed, too.” Lucifer admits with a pout.

So, Lucifer does want to be lied to, provided it strokes his ego? Good to know. 

Instead of allowing Lucifer to dwell on his disappointment (it’s not like Alastor can simply will the damned thing into standing upright), he squeezes Lucifer a bit harder and picks up the pace.

Lucifer arches his back again, legs falling open wider and to Alastor’s satisfaction, Lucifer grips his pillow in an attempt to preserve his sanity.

A perverse part of Alastor hopes that Lucifer’s moans are audible beyond the closed doors, and would give any hapless passer-by an earful.

If Alastor is to be completely honest with himself, the sensation of stroking Lucifer, if purely the physical aspect of it is considered, isn’t especially pleasant  – Lucifer’s leaking all over his fingers, lukewarm and slightly sticky, and Alastor’s wrist it getting a bit tired, but the way it makes Lucifer react? That makes it worth both the inconvenience and the effort. As long as Lucifer keeps writhing for him like a hooked, hapless little fish… Or serpent, as it were.

There is something definitively serpentine about the way Lucifer undulates underneath him, desperately seeking the pleasure Alastor is trying to dose for him, like a silver filigree dropper dispensing deadly poison into Lucifer’s favorite tea.

“Please–“Lucifer entreats, with a nearly gone expression, “–can I kiss you?”

Alastor doesn’t feel terribly enthusiastic about the prospect. The instances when the mood strikes him are vanishingly rare, but something about the sweet desperation of it, the expectation of being turned down and denied… how would Lucifer react if Alastor acquiesced?

“I don’t know,” Alastor drawls. “Can you?”

Lucifer groans and half-crawls to Alastor’s side of the bed to kiss him, careful not to touch anywhere else, despite his right hand hovering somewhere nearby, yet not daring to make contact. How delightfully obedient!

Alastor allows the lip-to-lip contact and breathes through his nose through the interminably long press of Lucifer’s lips. At least they’re soft and dry this time. Without the taste of Lucifer’s blood, the experience remains a vaguely distasteful one.

He attempts to speak to tell Lucifer that’s enough, but the second his mouth cracks open, Lucifer licks inside. Unable to help the reflex, Alastor turns away with a sound of disgust – tongue was not part of the deal.

Lucifer whimpers at both points of broken contact, Alastor’s hand having withdrawn as well.

“I’m–sorry–“ Lucifer stammers, and when Alastor looks at him again, is giving his best impersonation of a kicked puppy. “You hated that.”

“I didn’t hate it.” Alastor lies through his teeth. “It simply wasn’t appreciated. Or expected.”

“That…was definitely disgust.” Lucifer says, annoyingly perceptively.

“I simply wasn’t in the mood for your tongue in my mouth.”

“I’ll ask in the future,” Lucifer promises, earnest and contrite.

“That would be much appreciated,” Alastor concedes. “Now, would you like me to continue?”

Lucifer blinks about ten times before blurting out: “You would? I mean…I thought you wouldn’t want to.”

Alastor rolls his eyes. “Please, I am not so squeamish as that.”

Lucifer narrows his eyes at him but holds his tongue (good).

“Now lie back the way you were so I can get my hands on you again.”

Lucifer bites his lower lip again (without drawing blood, what a pity) and all but collapses back on the bed. “Am I allowed to touch you at all right now?”

Alastor makes a ponderous noise. “Hmm…no.”

“You’re still in your corset…aren’t you uncomfortable?”

What a peculiar question. Why would he be? And more importantly, why would that matter to Lucifer?

“Remove it? With the way you’re looking at it?” Alastor prods. Oh, he’s noticed how much Lucifer likes it. He would be a fool to relinquish the unexpected advantage the garment provides him.

Lucifer flushes, but says nothing, likely afraid to embarrass himself further. He attempts to mouth something but gives it up as soon as Alastor’s hand grasps his length once more. Lucifer throbs for him, mouth opening around a dissolute moan.

Upon further inspection, Lucifer does look like he needs something in that insolent mouth of his.

Alastor opens with a leading question. “What were you trying to do with that serpent tongue of yours?”

Lucifer looks at him in confusion. “You mean–kiss you?”

No, that was decidedly not what Alastor had meant.

“I propose a trade,” Alastor serves the bait.

“Huh?” Lucifer asks, wits clearly too addled to muster an intelligent response.

“Would another appendage to lavish appease you?”

Lucifer goes wide-eyed like a blushing bride on her wedding night. Then he looks down at Alastor’s still disinterested cock and looks confused.

“Um, are you sure–“

Now, Alastor would ordinarily love to watch Lucifer flounder about, but the arousal is more enjoyable to watch than idle bumbling, so he cuts it short.

“Wrong appendage.” Alastor smirks. “That won’t be on the menu.”

Lucifer whimpers in utter mortification and Alastor relishes it.

“Fuck me, why do I have a thing for domineering personalities?” Lucifer whines and smacks the back of his head into the pillow as a sign of protest.

“You are speaking about your lovely wife, I presume?” Alastor ventures.

“Please don’t mention her right now.” Lucifer implores.

“Why?”

“Do you really want me to tell you how often she would fold me over like a lawn chair and rail me until I passed out?” Lucifer asks, dubious.

The visual seems…wildly impractical. Though, to be fair, human body OR lawn chair, either hold about the same amount of sexual appeal for Alastor.

Instead of a trite answer, Alastor allows one of his tendrils out to play. It caresses Lucifer’s cheek.

“This is what’s on offer.”Alastor says smugly, allowing the tendril to pass over Lucifer’s slightly parted lips. “Should you wish, of course.”

Lucifer gives him a slightly panicked look. Is that embarrassment or arousal Alastor spies?

Alastor gives Lucifer’s shaft a few vigorous pumps, and with a full-body tremble, Lucifer’s mouth drops open, spilling a litany of lewd little noises. Alastor uses the opportunity to dip the tip if his tendril into Lucifer’s moaning mouth, where he flicks against his forked tongue. Lucifer’s eyes are closed, brows knit and for a while, it seems Alastor’s plan was a step too far for Lucifer.

Deeply disappointed, Alastor begins to pull his tendril back, when Lucifer’s eyes crack open and he licks the retreating tip. Unknowingly, Alastor’s grip tightens.

“Show me…what would you have done with that tongue?” Alastor asks with a crackling burst of static.

Lucifer groans and uses his tongue to suck at the tip of Alastor’s tendril. Just like a few hours ago, the visual of it is rather incendiary. There’s a subtle stirring between Alastor’s legs. It’s not quite arousal, but… interest perhaps? He directs his tendril to tangle with Lucifer’s slick tongue and realizes he doesn’t mind the sensation when it’s experienced second-hand. In his mouth, it was slimy and awful, but on his tendril it feels…downright pleasant?

And when Alastor pulls back, Lucifer arches desperately off the bed, chasing after his shadow with utter abandon. Alastor racks his brain for a fitting descriptor and falls short. A pedestrian word for it would be…hot? Attractive? No… None of these quite fit the bill. He flips through a mental dictionary and after a particularly whimpering noise of pleasure, Alastor’s brain lands squarely on erotic.

Any other body performing this action would look like a cheap prostitute (hence why Alastor cannot stomach even a single look at pornography), but with Lucifer, it comes across as beautifully obscene. Alastor doubts the All-Father had this in mind upon creation of angelic perfection and grace.

Alastor is so tempted to bite Lucifer’s pretty waist, but he isn’t allowed to break skin, so he refrains. His hand speeds up and the tendril fills Lucifer’s sweetly moaning mouth, growing thicker. He slides deeper into the slick warmth and watches Lucifer lose what’s left of his mind as he gulps and pants around Alastor’s thickening tendril.

His entire body goes rigid and with a helpless, whining gasp, Lucifer spills in two long stripes over his bare belly.  Alastor removes his dirtied hand with a noise of displeasure, noting how Lucifer is still licking at his tendril despite Alastor’s efforts to withdraw it.

“That’s enough,” Alastor forewarns, and his spit-slickened tendril withdraws down Lucifer’s lips and chin, caressing a wet trail down his stretched out neck before disappearing altogether.

Lucifer is looking at him, but doesn’t really seem all there, his stare being one of the thousand-yard variety. He blinks a few times and then flops onto his back once more.

“Was it as good for you as it was for me?” Alastor needles him.

Lucifer cracks one eye open and looks down. “And you’re still not hard. Fuck you.”

“Why does that matter?” Alastor asks, genuinely confused.

“Because it’s an expression of desire?” Lucifer explains.

“Is that the only metric?” Alastor asks dubiously.

“I mean… I guess not?”

Alastor looks at the mess left on Lucifer’s skin and gets a perverse urge to smear his fingers through it and leave invisible traces on Lucifer’s skin.

“Still won’t let me have a taste of your blood?” Alastor attempts.

“Hah!” Lucifer sighs. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Hmmm…” Alastor ponders, his feet swinging playfully behind him. “How about this?”

“How about what?”

“Will you let me sample your seed?”

Lucifer bolts upright. “Huh?!”

“You heard me.”

“You want to…”

“Taste you.”

“My…”

“Your seed, yes.”

“You’re utterly incomprehensible.”

“Is that a no?”

“If course it’s not a no, you idiot!”

“Wouldn’t dare presume…” Alastor says slyly.

Lucifer groans. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Ah, how lovely of Lucifer to go straight to the best case scenario!

“Should I just help myself?” Alastor asks and without waiting for an answer crawls closer on all fours and leans in, dipping the very tippy-tip of his tongue into the mess Lucifer’s made of himself.

Into the mess Alastor caused.

Lucifer straight up whines when Alastor starts to lap up the pearly liquid, its thoroughly pleasant bitter and musky taste tingling across Alastor’s palate. For a glorious moment, he imagines burying his face deeper into Lucifer’s flesh and tearing him open.

“Wait- wait!” Lucifer tries to say, but Alastor pays him no mind, thorough in his clean-up, licking long stripes up his stomach.

Once he’s done, he looks up at Lucifer and gives him a self-satisfied smile.

“I believe I’ll make my exit now if you don’t mind.”

“Alastor!” Lucifer cries out in indignation, but Alastor only melts into his shadow, dashes towards the table to meld with his discarded clothing and is half-way out under the door when Lucifer shouts:

“When were you going to tell me you had a tail?!”

His shadow cackles as it flees down the corridor.

Always leave them wanting more!

Chapter Text

Alastor spends the rest of the day in relaxation – running a nice long shower, listening to some superb Dixieland on the radio, even indulging in a spot of tap dancing across his dimly lit rooms. Once he grows peckish, he sits into the more integrated swamp backyard right off his parlor and enjoys a juicy rare venison steak. His mood and the lingering aftertaste of Lucifer on his tongue provides delicious seasoning to his meal.  For the first time in five weeks, his food tastes something other than bland. Alastor heard the smell of those particular fluids usually left much to be desired, but he presumes that doesn’t pertain to fallen celestial beings, as Lucifer’s ejaculate tasted decidedly less fusty and more… clean somehow. Like bitter rain perhaps, except with a slightly more unpleasant texture.

Even the fact his tail has been discovered by Lucifer hasn’t managed to put a damper on his mood. Alastor has taken to hiding it assiduously, as it doesn’t at all fit with the image he’s trying to portray, but he supposes that Lucifer won’t molest him about it if Alastor forbids him to. With all his vaunted talk of boundaries (utter nonsense, an excuse for those too weak to take what they wanted), Alastor supposes Lucifer will keep his hands to himself until Alastor invites it (and in case of his tail, that would be precisely NEVER).

Still, having something new he can leverage against Lucifer is a decidedly good thing. Alastor wonders how long it will take for Lucifer to beg to touch it and what exactly he would be willing to give up for it – a taste of his precious blood, perhaps? It’s been so long since Alastor’s last sampled it, and no matter how not-unpleasant Lucifer’s seed was, it couldn’t hold a candle to the ambrosial delicacy of his divine blood.

Flattery – Alastor reminded himself – flattery was the key to success. This meek play-pretend business was sure to be tiring in short order, but the stakes were high enough to warrant the use of such measures. Just like he’d lured Husker into giving his soul away by losing a few hands first, Lucifer is going to be no different. Alastor simply has more skin in the game than before.

He reads the day’s newspapers, keeping up with the latest gossip from other Rings as he hums along a few Jelly Roll Morton tunes. Ah, that man was good with the crowds. For a moment, he’s transported back home, to his glory days – when he used to report on his own crimes over the radio between the latest jazz hits. Those were the good times. Especially because he could go for a drink after work to one of his favorite haunts and listen to people discuss the latest disappearances with mingled terror and relief. People would ask him for his input on the matter, which he was more than happy to provide. It proved a delightful diversion (of every kind).

It is approximately around eleven in the evening that he gets a knock on the door. His ears perk up. If it’s Charlie, he’s going to be very disappointed. If it’s Niffty, he’d be terribly surprised she knocked (as she was more liable to crawl in through the chimney, even with a fire going).

Alastor hopes it’s Lucifer, the idea of the King of Hell coming to him without even a full day having passed… How delightful of a prospect that would be?

There’s another knock on his door, and Alastor slowly rises from his seat – it wouldn’t do to appear too eager. He strolls to his door and smoothly opens it, narrowly avoiding getting knocked on the head by Lucifer’s tacky apple staff.

“Oh!” Lucifer exclaims, “I was beginning to think you were out.”

“No, I was looking at some sheet music,” Alastor lies through his teeth.

“Right, I remember you can play the piano.”

“Not just the piano,” Alastor says smugly. “Do come in, don’t hover at the door.”

Lucifer enters, bedecked once again in his full outfit and utterly ridiculous top hat. Alastor privately thinks that it looks so undignified, why; a serpent circlet or even a tiara would suit him much better. No wonder no one is taking him seriously in this getup.

Alastor leads Lucifer to his seating area in front of the fireplace and offers him the left armchair, which Lucifer graciously lowers himself into.

“Can I get you anything?” Alastor offers under the guise of politeness. “Coffee? Whisky?”

“Are those my only two options?” Lucifer asks, sounding somewhat disappointed.

“There’s a bottle of moonshine I’ve been keeping for a special occasion, provided you’re interested?”

“That’s…a bit too hard for my tastes.” Lucifer trails off. “I wouldn’t mind a glass of whisky, I suppose.”

Ah, so it was a liquid courage kind of night? Alastor could work with that.

“Splendid, let me fetch some glasses.” Alastor says amiably and heads towards his (admittedly rather sparse) liquor cabinet. Aside from the aforementioned whisky and moonshine, there’s a bottle of Rosie’s favorite sherry, which Alastor isn’t inclined to share with anyone other than the intended recipient. The image of Lucifer primly sipping on sherry is, however, a deeply amusing (and slightly emasculating) one.

He takes two of his crystal whisky glasses between his fingers and the whisky bottle as well. Better keep it on hand to dose Lucifer if he proves amenable. With a genial smile of a perfect host, Alastor strides back to the coffee table wedged squarely between the armchairs for optimal distance, and deposits their glasses on the table.

“One finger?” Alastor asks as he uncorks the bottle. “Or perhaps two?”

“Uh, one is fine.”

Just one – how pathetic is that? Alastor hopes Lucifer is a lightweight, that way he can still hopefully get some entertainment out of the evening.

He pours liberally, a shade more than the proscribed finger, but Lucifer doesn’t offer a protest. Then he pours himself the equivalent amount, corks the bottle and deposits it on the table between them before seating himself in the other chair. Alastor crosses his legs and takes hold of his glass, leaning forward slightly with his glass held lightly in his grasp.

“What shall we toast to?”

Lucifer seems taken aback as he hastens to pick up his glass. “I don’t know? What do you want to toast to?”

How boring of him.

“To civility,” Alastor says in an airy tone and clinks his glass against Lucifer’s.

“Hah,” Lucifer offers a brief chuckle. “To civility, then.”

With a significant look, Alastor brings the glass to his lips and reminds himself not to knock it back like he used to during the Prohibition, where it was prudent never to be caught with a full glass – just in case of an impromptu raid by the authorities. To be fair, Alastor never saw them make much of an effort, as the entirety of New Orleans was gleefully flaunting the law; from the many home-brewers making moonshine, to the smugglers making a living through rum-running. Ah, the free spirit of his hometown – Alastor misses it so.

Lucifer takes a small sip, and doesn’t react to the burn of the liquor, which is both encouraging and saddening at the same time.

“Quite strong,” Lucifer comments. “Peaty, I like it.”

Alastor’s grin turns a fraction more genuine.

“Drink a lot of whisky in your spare time, your Majesty?” Alastor asks mockingly, though quite mild by his standards.

“Is there a single soul in this hellhole that hasn’t at some point sought answers at the bottom of a glass?”

“If not before their untimely demise, then surely after.” Alastor graciously concedes the point. He savors the burn on his tongue and the warmth crawling down his throat. He truly should partake more often.

Lucifer offers a wan smile and takes another sip, this one more substantial. Alastor observes the movement of that eminently bitable throat and sucks on his own tongue, imagining the burst of flavor Lucifer’s divine blood would provide.

Lucifer hums, swirling the remainder of the liquid in his glass. With an absent-minded wave of his hand, a gold-rimmed glass appears on the table, half-filled with a clear liquid and a tiny dropper.

Alastor is tempted to ask what in the tarnation Lucifer is doing, but he fails to come up with anything witty enough to say before Lucifer picks the dropper up, sucks up a minute amount of liquid from the summoned vessel, and proceeds to dose his whisky with a single drop. After that’s done, he deposits the dropper back into the gold-rimmed glass and picks his drink back up, passing it back and forth under his nose to, presumably, savor its scent.

Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Alastor succumbs: “May I inquire as to what you are doing?”

Lucifer looks at him with utter incomprehension. “What do you mean?”

“What did you add there?” And why, which remains unspoken.

Lucifer blinks three times. “…water?”

“A single drop?” Alastor quirks an eyebrow about as high as it can go.

“Yeah,” Lucifer says, clearly perturbed by the discussion. “One drop is enough.”

“What for?” Alastor asks, genuinely befuddled.

Lucifer looks to the side, blinking rapidly like his brain has been switched off. He turns slowly to Alastor and points to the glass still clutched in his left hand – “Um, to bring out more flavor?”

Alastor tilts his head almost all the way to his left shoulder. “To do what now?”

“Are you deaf?” Lucifer narrows his eyes. “I already told you – it’s used to enhance the taste. That’s how they do it in Scotland – you know – the place it was originally invented?”

Alastor returns his neck back to its usual position. He cannot help but point out: “This isn’t scotch, your Majesty.”

“So fucking what?” Lucifer says defiantly, cheeks flushing with embarrassment at being contradicted. “I was going to offer you to try it, but now you can fuck off and drink yours like a heathen.”

“It enhances the taste, you said?” Alastor inquires, intrigued despite himself.

Lucifer gives him a venomous glare and gulps down the rest, letting it linger in his mouth a moment longer before swallowing. He manages all this without breaking eye contact with Alastor.

“Fine,” Alastor sighs theatrically, “a drop, you said?”

Before Alastor can reach for the dropper, Lucifer floats it out of his reach like the petty little clown he is.

“That’s the second apology you owe me today. Or is it third?” Lucifer’s annoyed frown is somehow both hilarious and adorable.

“Oh?” Alastor purrs. “Were you keeping score?”

“I suspect I will be forced to,” Lucifer says honestly. “Why can’t you be a normal person for literally five minutes, huh? Would it kill you? ‘Cause I’m starting to suspect it might.”

“How was I supposed to react?” Alastor asks, genuinely perplexed by Lucifer’s gripe. This wasn’t even in the top one hundred rude remarks he’s made to Lucifer since the beginning of their acquaintance.

“A normal person would take in the information provided instead of ridiculing the person trying to teach them something.”

“It seemed arbitrary to me,” Alastor shrugs.

“So much for civility.” Lucifer sighs and looks Alastor in the eye with an imploring look. “Please, Alastor. I didn’t come here to fight.”

Whoever said that please was a magic word (oh, it was his maman), was apparently right, because, while Alastor doesn’t want to concede an inch, he senses he’s pushing Lucifer’s limits too early in the evening.

“Oh, alright.” Alastor says with an exaggerated air of concession. “I apologize for ridiculing your attempts at teaching me how to imbibe like a proper Scotsman.”

Lucifer keeps the glass where it is, far away from Alastor’s (bodily) grasp. He could always snatch it with a tendril, but that would only piss Lucifer off further.

“That apology was absolutely abysmal.” Lucifer says flatly. “Care to try again?”

Alastor feels ticked. “I apologize for my ingratitude.”

Lucifer’s expression remains profoundly unimpressed. “Can you at least pretend you actually mean it? Your acting is shit.”

Alastor feels hard-pressed to mention that his face was made for radio, but manages to barely restrain himself.

“Fine!” Alastor snaps. “I should have let you finish before running a commentary.”

Lucifer looks reluctantly impressed. “You know, that was pretty good. Thank you, apology accepted.”

Alastor takes in a deep breath. “May I have the dropper now?”

A corner of Lucifer’s mouth quirks up in a decently charming smile. “Nope,” he says, the last syllable popping like a kernel of popcorn.”One down, two to go.”

“What am I supposed to apologize for, exactly?”

“You really can’t think of anything?”

Alastor takes a damnably slow sip of his whisky. “Are you referring to my exit earlier today?”

“What else would I be referring to?!”

Alastor shrugs, affecting nonchalance. “The timing felt appropriate.”

“What, a fuck-em and fuck-off strategy? Real smooth.”

Alastor frowns. “Were you expecting me to linger?”

“You were in my bed. Had I wanted to kick you out, you would have been flying out my window at five in the morning.”

Alastor grins. “That would have been hard to explain, what with me being in a state of undress…”

Lucifer flushes with anger. “You can turn into shadow in less than a second, if anyone saw you naked, it would be because you wanted them to!”

Alastor concedes a point in Lucifer’s favor.

“Would it have killed you to stay a bit longer and part ways like a normal person?”

“Define normal.”

Lucifer expels a shuddering breath in an attempt to calm down. “Ok, I forgot who I was speaking to for a moment.”

Alastor raises an eyebrow in question.

“A fucking two-hundred year old man who somehow has less experience with relationships than an average fifteen-year old on Earth.”

Alastor finds himself distinctly irritated. “Your point being?”

“For someone obsessed with the notion of civility and feigned politeness, your grasp on social expectations is vanishingly minuscule.”

Alastor drains the rest of his glass. Fuck Lucifer’s pompous little ritual in particular.

“Did you want me to stay and cuddle?” Alastor says venomously, left hand gripping the edge of his armchair in a manner that threatens to rend fabric.

“I would have actually liked that, yes!” Lucifer exclaims, utterly exasperated.

Alastor’s brain stutters to a screeching halt, like automobile tires grinding to a stop before they hit a pram. “You what?” He asks dumbly.

“Yes, Alastor, I am that fucking desperate that I actually wouldn’t mind a warm and willing body lying next to me for an hour or two. Are you going to mock me for that as well?”

The gold-rimmed glass avec dropper lands back on the table with a deafening clunk.

For once, Alastor finds himself rendered entirely speechless. Lucifer wants…

“You want…” Alastor tries to comprehend, but fails to coalesce a thought.

“I want some Goddamn intimacy, yes. Sue me!” Lucifer says crossly and reaches for Alastor’s whisky, pouring himself half a glass. Alastor cannot even find it in him to be mad that Lucifer is burning through the stuff, he’s that stunned.

“I…” Alastor says haltingly, “…wasn’t aware.”

“Yeah,” Lucifer says with the glass raised in mock-toast. “That’s become pretty clear.”

Alastor stares as Lucifer drains a quarter of the glass and then bares his teeth with a hiss.

“Great. Now that you know, would you have stayed?” Lucifer asks, expression betraying his utter lack of expectations towards a positive answer and Alastor feels somewhat…strange about it. Would he have left regardless?

The answer is a resounding yes. He definitely wanted Lucifer to be disappointed by his leaving. But knowing Lucifer is angry and wanting more is somehow different to knowing Lucifer was left feeling…worse off? Not the unquantifiable worse-off of wanting more and being denied, but the worse-off of accepting what was essentially scraps.

Alastor needed Lucifer in a good mood – a giving mood – not this… abject dejection. What the Hell was he supposed to do about dejection? Lucifer was already miserably depressed most of the time and Alastor found it annoying and bothersome to observe on a daily basis. Horny-puppy Lucifer was better than abandoned-in-the-rain Lucifer.

“I can stay in the future,” Alastor says quietly.

Lucifer looks at him like he sprouted three additional heads. “Hah! Funny joke–” Lucifer raises his glass, voice strained. “–almost had me there.”

“I’m not joking,” Alastor says seriously, his smile as dim as his stitches allow.

Lucifer gives him a hurt look and leans back in his chair, holding the glass in both hands and staring into the amber liquid contained within.

“Ask me after midnight if you don’t believe me.” Alastor offers.

Lucifer squeezes his eyes shut, expression pained. His breathing is…unnatural. Rushed, labored; somehow wrong.

“You were right.” Lucifer says in a strange tone, eyes shut tight, almost like he’s afraid of opening them. Alastor is too absorbed in trying to decipher what’s happening to interrupt. “You were right and I hate it.”

Alastor forgets to breathe.

“I let everything around me fall to shit.”

Alastor lowers his glass, resting it against his knee.

“I shut myself away to stop…” Lucifer shudders, expression pained.” I just wanted everything to stop.”

Alastor watches, unblinking – frozen in place.

“Seeing them suffer, more and more arriving every day, trapped forever –“ Lucifer’s breath hitches with a painful spasm, the whisky in his glass sloshing around as his black fingers tighten around it in a bruising grasp. Alastor has the vague impression the glass might soon shatter. “–and knowing I can’t stop it, knowing it is futile to even try–“

Alastor jerks forward in his seat, torn between conflicting impulses – one is to act, the other – to listen.

Lucifer’s voice breaks on the words, like a ship running aground in a deadly storm. “It destroyed me.”

Alastor fears what comes next – the tears, or worse, and doesn’t know what to say.

Lucifer swallows and his head drops down. Alastor hears a subtle noise that could almost be a sob, but when it happens again, he realizes it’s actually…laughter?

Lucifer’s eyes open, remarkably free of tears.

“Come on, mock me.”

Alastor would like nothing better, but genuinely finds himself at a loss for words.

“Tell me I am weak.”

Alastor grits his teeth.

“Tell me I am pathetic.”

Alastor says nothing.

“Tell me it’s all my fault.”

Alastor shakes his head – to clear his thoughts – to deny – to–

“Tell me I am a waste of life! A failed King who cannot even fucking die!” Lucifer growls in self-recrimination. “Tell me, Alastor!”

For a brief moment, Alastor considers – the weight of every single human life that ever lived – man, woman, and child – how heavy would that be on someone who actually cared?

“Rip me to shreds, you bitch–“ Lucifer spits venomously, “–what are you hesitating for?!”

Much to Alastor’s confusion, the sight elicits a reaction he utterly fails to comprehend – he gets achingly, hopelessly hard.

“You want me to punish you? Is that it?” Alastor says deceptively calmly.

“I thought I was punishing myself, but perhaps I’m not capable of that. Maybe I need someone as twisted, unfeeling, and entirely unrepentant as you are for that.”

“You sound almost grateful.” Alastor notes, perturbed by his visceral physical reaction to what he’s witnessing.

“I hate you.” Lucifer says emphatically.

Oh, is it hate now? Alastor must be coming up in the world.

“The feeling’s mutual,” Alastor says blithely, even though the word doesn’t fully fit the sentiment percolating in his veins.

“You’re everything that’s wrong with humanity – the utter lack of empathy for your fellow man – the complete disregard for what another person may be feeling – the acrid, all-consuming selfishness of you!”

“Oh, am I the embodiment of all sin now?” Alastor says snidely, putting his glass on the table before he shatters it in his rage.

“You’re the embodiment of MY sin!” Lucifer shouts, horns exploding out of his forehead, eyes flooding with crimson and gold, the fire burning effervescently above his hair, like the echo of a forsaken halo he once possessed.

He must be the most arresting creature in all of creation, with his eyes incandescent with pure, unfiltered fury that feels more like a benediction than a million prayers could ever hope to manage.

“Prideful and oblivious to consequences! And so certain that every action you’re taking is the correct one!” Lucifer snarls and downs the rest of the liquid in his glass before hurtling it full force into the fireplace where it explodes into a million pieces, the dregs of alcohol still clinging onto the glass igniting for a blinding moment.

Alastor trembles in his seat.

“Tell me what you want,” Alastor utters, throat barely functioning around the rasp of his words.

“I want to murder you.” Lucifer says in a low, menacing growl that goes straight to Alastor’s cock.

“That’s…not on the menu,” Alastor barely manages to say, radio static invading the air between them as his antlers sprout out, entirely against his will.

“What if I’m in the mood for venison tonight?” Lucifer says dangerously, and Alastor groans helplessly in his seat as a full-body quiver overtakes him; like a million volts of electricity coursing through his undead body. 

The radio flickers from station to station, unable to follow Alastor’s commands, as he isn’t capable of rational thought.

“Stop asking,” Alastor growls, deep and feral like an animal dying of rabies. “And take it, my King.”

Like a demon possessed, Lucifer rises from his seat, crimson wings sprouting from his form and carrying him across the table to Alastor, where he hovers above him like a malevolent spirit looking down upon his hapless victim.

“You dare mock me.”

Alastor stares up helplessly. It wasn’t intended as such. A provocation, to be sure, but not mockery.

Lucifer raises a black, clawed hand and with a motion worthy of a puppeteer master, every single stitch of Alastor’s clothing comes undone and splits apart, turning to ash.

“You’re aroused,” Lucifer notices at last. “What did I tell you – suicidal. Mad as a hatter.”

“Speaking of hats, take yours off.”

“Why?”

“It makes you look stupid.”

“Hah, I was under the impression you actually believed I was,” Lucifer says wryly, his demonic grin legitimately terrifying.

“No. I don’t think that at all.” Alastor says and genuinely cannot tell whether it’s the truth, or some primitive sense of self-preservation kicking in at last.

Lucifer says nothing, and with a snap of his fingers, he’s completely bared to Alastor’s gaze, his clothing banished who knows where.

Alastor is torn, so torn–

“Are you lonely?” he asks Lucifer, attempting to uphold the stipulation of their deal.

“Who wouldn’t be–” Lucifer chuckles, staring him down, his gaze like a long and sharp pin stabbing into a butterfly. “–with you for company?”

Somewhere deep, Alastor feels that stab, right in the center of his ribcage.

“You said you wanted to ruin me,” Lucifer sing-songs mockingly. “Well, give it your best shot.”

Chapter Text

That word – ruination. Tumbling so freely from Lucifer’s lips, like an offering.

Like a prayer.

The King of Hell, the former favorite of the eternal Creator – Lucifer Morningstar – the Lightbringer – asking a sinner whom he loathes for ruination.

Alastor's radio crackles, switching to a station with nary a thought – something suitable for the occasion. Trombones, tubas and bassoons make a thunderous entrance before dissolving into the gentlest sound of flutes and piccolos. The violins begin to weep as Alastor reaches out and pulls Lucifer down, into the muck where the rest of the sinners dwell; onto his obscenely bared lap he can barely feel as his fingers pull at silken crimson feathers, Lucifer not offering the slightest amount of resistance.

He pulls Lucifer fully onto himself and buries his face into his sinfully soft neck – a swan ready for the abbatoir. Alastor’s heart thunders in his chest as he kisses the pearly-white skin, leaving gasping, open-mouthed kisses against it, feeling the moisture of his own breath reflected back at him.

“Feed, you beast,” Lucifer incites him, cruel in his mockery.

Alastor isn’t a beast. He is not. He has worked his entire life to only be a beast to those who deserved it, and if he applies his at times flexible moral code to the situation, Lucifer falls short of the cut-off mark. Sure, he isn’t weak and forgettable, nor is he the kind of monster Alastor would have spent months learning everything about so he could ambush them in the middle of the night and drag them to the Bayou to be disposed of by the ravenous wildlife, never to be seen again.

Lucifer falls somewhere in-between, an unintentional sinner, one much like Alastor himself, or rather, less so. He could be exactly like Alastor and exercise his vast powers to destroy the hordes of literal monsters propagating in Hell, but instead, he would rather self-destruct.

It makes Alastor so angry.

“Hesitation?” Lucifer croons sweetly. “From you?”

Alastor licks a long stripe along Lucifer’s exposed neck, eliciting an involuntary shiver.

“Self-restraint, Alastor?” Lucifer laughs, high-pitched and with a desperate twang. “Or is this simply you being contrary to a fault, as usual?”

Alastor grasps Lucifer by the hip, his other hand still tangled in one of Lucifer’s wings, keeping him trapped.

“You don’t know me,” Alastor growls against the thrumming flesh, the blood beneath calling out to him like a church bell to mass.

“Have you ever let anyone know you, Alastor?” Lucifer asks, entirely too incisively for Alastor’s tastes.

“Why would I?” Alastor answers, sucking a bruise into Lucifer’s pale neck.

“Because then you wouldn’t be so miserably hollow, perhaps?” Lucifer whispers into his hair. Alastor’s ear twitches.

“It’s more honest than failing everyone you claim to love,” Alastor growls out and nips at Lucifer’s throat, grazing the skin without breaking it.

Lucifer laughs over his lap. “You are only perceptive when you’re going for the kill, aren’t you? Have you ever tried using that insight on your broken psyche, hmm?”

Alastor snaps and bites into Lucifer’s neck, sinking his teeth as deep as they can go.

Lucifer hisses, but the sound dies and is renewed as a low, filthy moan.

Why? Why does it sound like he’s enjoying himself while Alastor is, for all intents and purposes, devouring him?

The blood – the sweet, golden nectar of the gods, pools in his mouth like a well-spring. Alastor gulps, long greedy swallows cascading down his throat, a braying deer call echoing in the room, amplified a dozen times. His eyes roll to the back of his head as the scent of ripe apples tickles his nose. All at once, he can see tectonic plates shifting, crawling along the ocean floor, the planet’s crust crackling in large, immeasurable fissures as boiling magma spills from the bowels of the Earth to be quelled by the vast, impossibly oppressive crush of the ocean – hissing in the unknowable and desolate depths – never to be seen by the human eye.

He senses life there, miles and miles under the ocean’s surface, feeding off of sulfur just like demonic creatures do – except more primitive – and entirely devoid of thought or feeling. The simplicity of such a life-form’s existence fills him with something he cannot grasp, an emotion so unbearable he pulls away from the gaping wound he has torn in Lucifer’s immaculate flesh.

Blood gushes out of the wound like a golden waterfall, cascading down the perfect contours of Lucifer’s angelic form. Within the span of two of Alastor’s heartbeats, it’s run all the way down to Lucifer’s thigh, and splattered all over Alastor’s front.

For a terrifying moment, he panics that it’s a mortal wound – that all this blood will go to waste; that he will KILL Lucifer and have a feast in his quarters that will end up killing him when the daughter invariably finds out, and besides – it’s too soon; the timing not right – if he slays Lucifer, who will provide him with the power to release his shackles?

Eyes wide with fear, Alastor clamps down his hand over Lucifer’s neck.

“Heal it!” He cries out, insensate.

Lucifer offers a gurgling, choked up laugh, his eyes crimson and gold, and utterly without mercy.

“I thought this was what you wanted?” Lucifer croons.

Alastor shakes his head, because it isn’t. It isn’t what he wants at all–

“I thought you wanted my blood? My crown?”

“I want you alive!” Alastor commands, knowing his words have no power whatsoever over the King of Hell.

“You could rid me of this pesky life I couldn’t take by myself.” Lucifer offers, handing Alastor carte blanche for his own murder.

“And leave your daughter destroyed like you were?!” Alastor snarls, attempting to shake some sense into Lucifer.

“Think of the childreeeen–“ Lucifer sing-songs, a grotesque, wet sound bubbling up from his torn throat.

“You want to be punished so badly?” Alastor asks in disgust. “Then live and do a better job of it! Why do I have to be the one to tell you this?!”

Lucifer’s expression grows tender in a deeply disturbing manner. “Because you don’t give a shit whether I live or die?”

“I don’t want you to die!” Alastor screams through the static.

In the distance, Alastor’s clock strikes midnight, each resounding chime a grim countdown to something he dares not contemplate fully.

“Ask me again,” Alastor implores him. “It’s past midnight – I can’t lie to you!”

“What if I don’t want to?” Lucifer says simply. “You can fuck me while I bleed out… Would you like that?”

Alastor looks at the golden deluge covering them both and feels every ounce of ardor vanish from his body like a bad dream.

“No!” Alastor says with revulsion.

“Why not?”

“Because I need you alive.”

“Why?”

“Because…because–” Alastor stares at the massive golden smear down both of their fronts and wants to vomit. For this last question, he isn’t allowed to lie. The truth is ripped out of him, kicking and screaming as it goes, unable to be taken back: “Because you’re too beautiful to kill.”

“That makes all three.” Lucifer coughs, golden spittle spilling out of the corners of his mouth.

“Please, Lucifer–” Alastor entreats. “Heal yourself.”

“Even now, your eyes burn with addiction to my blood,” Lucifer says wetly.

“You can rip it out of me later – you can put me in chains – you can disintegrate me on a molecular level, just–”

“Is that concern I hear, Alastor?”

“Death is final.” Alastor says like a death knell. “You have all the time in the world to fix your mistakes.”

Lucifer smiles. “I had all the time in the world and I didn’t.”

The prickling in Alastor eyes becomes unbearable and a trickling stream of tears pours out, trailing down his gaunt face, burning along the stitches of his irrepressible smile. He swallows the traitorous sound down, but the tears don’t stop coming.

“Are you crying for me, dear?” Lucifer asks tenderly, and places a hand on Alastor’s soaked cheek.

“I– I need you.” Alastor whines out, forced to admit something he never would, not unless under a soul-binding compulsion. “There can never be another.”

“Another what?”

“Another that deserves to stand above me.”

“You’re so fucking vain,” Lucifer remarks, eyes half-lidded and somehow devoid of their usual luster. When he moves, Alastor cannot stop him.

Lucifer’s bloodied lips press against his, and Alastor kisses back, willing to give most anything to change his mind.

Alastor has never met his match, never thought he would, people were puzzles to be assembled and disassembled at his will, nothing more – but Lucifer?  He was everything Alastor wished he could have known before consigning his soul to the devil – a master who wasn’t full of deceit while offering freedom, but someone who had given that freedom to humanity, not once, but twice – as above, so below.

“I was wrong,” Alastor admits when the kiss finally breaks.

Lucifer gives him a very tired look, the red fading from his eyes. “I’m cold…”

Alastor wraps himself around Lucifer as best as he is able, while keeping the ghastly wound on his neck covered. The blood has congealed slightly, sticking to the palm of his hand like flypaper.

“You’re not weak – you’re not a waste of life – I was wrong.” Alastor cradles Lucifer close and cries into his soft golden hair. “I am sorry,” Alastor confesses, unburdening himself for the only time since his first communion. “There, I said it – just like you wanted!”

Lucifer laughs, weakly, flagging in his arms, his wings drooping completely; limp as they hang off his back as if broken.

“Lucifer, please–“ Alastor outright begs. “I’ll do anything–!”

“No deals,” Lucifer murmurs.

“No deals,” Alastor reaffirms. “I give you my word – just tell me what you want.”

“Hold me–“ Lucifer mutters so faintly that every atom in Alastor’s body is screaming. “–accountable.”

“Hold you…accountable?” Alastor asks.

Lucifer groans.

“I will. I swear.” Alastor makes a promise that feels like eternal damnation. “I swear to it – on what’s left of my soul.”

Golden sparkles, faint and half-translucent, coalesce around his hand and sink into Lucifer’s skin. With a shaky exhale, Lucifer goes limp in his grasp.

In a moment of blind panic, Alastor takes Lucifer’s head in his hands and unpeels his hand from his neck, the gold brilliance of it stark and horrifying against the dark skin of his palm. He trembles as he dares look upon Lucifer’s thoroughly bloodied neck, but what he fears the most–

–Alastor doesn’t find it. The bloody smear obscures his view, but the maiming injury he’s inflicted is gone, Lucifer’s skin unbroken once more. His tendrils wrap up around Lucifer’s unconscious body and Alastor staggers across the room, doing his best to carry it to his bed without jostling him too much. Lucifer’s arms hang limply and lifelessly as Alastor makes his macabre pilgrimage – and the image of him, awash with gold as pure as dawn, roils in Alastor’s gut.

As soon as Lucifer is laid out comfortably upon his bedcovers, body limp and beautiful like a white marble headstone covering a stone casket,  Alastor turns around, unable to look upon the grisly scene any longer – and retches in the middle of his room, expelling as much of the golden blood he’s gorged himself on earlier as he is able. It burns on the way out, and he notes, mutely, that he is bathed in Lucifer’s blood, from chest to groin, from the palm of his hand to shoulder. It looks like a decorative gauntlet. It looks like viscera.

It looks wrong.

Alastor trembles, bent forward, unable to stop.

He has sinned.

For the first time since falling into the pit, he has sinned.

He retches until there’s only bile left and collapses on the floor in a sprawl of naked, entirely uncoordinated limbs, his legs giving out on him like a newborn fawn’s.

He has almost killed Lucifer.

This time – the radio only broadcasts whimpers, unfiltered and heart-wrenching, just like the ones he remembers making in the cellar after one of his father’s frequent punishments, his mother not allowed to let him out.

Alastor buries his hands in his palms and weeps.

Chapter Text

Alastor looks at the clock on his wall. It’s a quarter after two in the morning, and Lucifer is still out cold.

He wrings out the towel in the basin; water stained the palest gold, and takes another gentle swipe across Lucifer’s cold skin. His shadow has already emptied out and replaced three basins, and Lucifer is still smeared with blood from hip to knee. Any mortal would have bled out and died, but the subtlest rising of Lucifer’s chest serves as the only indication that he’s still alive. He hasn’t stirred, not even once in the past two hours. Alastor shudders, still nude from Lucifer having disintegrated his clothing, and contemplates taking a shower once he’s done cleaning Lucifer up.

After picking himself up off the floor and killing the radio a while ago, he’d intended to purge himself of the blood clinging to him like a sticky second skin, but the second his gaze fell on Lucifer – just lying on his bed, helpless and near-dead – wrenched something inside him. He remembered how carefully Lucifer had cleaned his wounds, and how gently his maman would soothe him when Alastor had a fever, and felt a stirring of something that might have been guilt, or maybe even pity.

Lucifer was so drenched in blood that it looked like a golden curtain, draped over him – like a statue with a carved veil over all its contours. His wings lay limp, as if broken, and bent at an odd angle that Alastor presumed would be painful were he awake. Lucifer’s face was slack but not restful, the smallest of frowns etched onto his brow, his golden hair fanned out around his head like an extinguished halo. 

The smell of vomit reached his nostrils and made Alastor’s guts churn all over again. He threw his most powerful magic at the massive, ugly golden-green stain and it only succeeded in removing about ten percent of the mess. At least the stench was gone, for the most part. Perhaps his powers couldn’t purge angelic essence. A problem for a later time.

He turned back towards Lucifer and couldn’t bear the sight any longer. On shaky legs, Alastor staggered to his bathroom and let the water run in the sink, plunging his hands under the scalding, sulfurous spray (most water in hell smelled of sulfur, he’d stopped noticing after the first few months down here). He scrubbed and scrubbed, trying to wash his forearms clean, when he caught his own reflection in the mirror.

He looked like Hell – swollen eyes, salted tear tracks down his cheeks, and a smile that was unambiguously a grimace. His shadow lashed out and smashed the mirror, leaving it fractured like a kaleidoscopic spider web. Thousands of his red eyes observed him with reproach.

“It wasn’t on purpose.” Alastor addressed his warped reflection. “He just made me so livid.”

The smile was mocking, reflected a thousand-fold back at him.

What you lookin’ at me like that for, boy?

“He provoked me!”

You’re weak, boy. You gotta show ‘em what’s what. Every bitch needs a cane.

“Shut up!!” Alastor screams, his shadow ripping the damned mirror off the wall and smashing it into the opposite corner of the bathroom where it crash-lands on the floor in a crooked, vaguely rectangular heap.

Alastor splashes hot water into his face repeatedly, drenching his hair in the process. He leans against the sink with both hands and attempts to calm his breathing. The water runs pale gold in a swirl around the drain, and a full-body shudder wracks his frame.

Be kind, cheri. Most people are kind.

“No, they’re not, maman.” Alastor mutters to himself, staring at the clear water running endlessly down the drain.

People were not terribly kind. Especially not in Hell. Back in New Orleans, there were plenty of good folks. Plenty of funny, endearing and deeply broken ones too, Mimzy being one of them. That girl was a trouble magnet, always chasing rich dandies, but somehow always ones who were up to no good – gangsters and smugglers and bookies. They would all inevitably turn violent, or ugly, and Alastor had somehow managed to become her refuge when the fellows would come-a-knockin’.

When he killed one of the pests in her defense, he’d expected her to scream and run to the police, but she’d just looked up at him with her wide doe eyes and asked what they were going to do. Alastor suggested they feed the guy to the gators, and she put on her coat without a word and handed him his.

Good ol’ Mimzy. Heart of gold, permanent hole in her purse, and an iron stomach. She could drink men thrice her size under the table, bless her.

And Lucifer?

First among the angels. The first devil.

The liberator of mankind.

Suicidal and sweet as apple pie.

And laid out on his bed like a murder victim.

Like his maman, staring unseeing at the wall as the bed creaks and creaks and creaks, his father’s disgusting grunts filling the corridor, with Alastor huddled outside, fingers itching to grasp a broken bottle and lodge it into his father’s hairy neck.

He dry heaved, spitting up a glob of bile that landed in the sink like the embodiment of sin.

His father’s or his – it mattered little.

Lucifer wasn’t a monster to be slain. He wasn’t an illiterate drunkard beating on his wife and children. He wasn’t a local loan shark extorting widows for sexual favors. He was not the priest touching young boys and leaving them with bloodied breeches.

He didn’t deserve death. At least not the kind Alastor provided.

To be perfectly fair, Lucifer didn’t deserve to be in Hell at all. His crime was rebellion against authority, not some depraved horror that one would associate as deserving of eternal torment.

To not truly be a sinner and be stuck in Hell…

Alastor washed his face a final time and rinsed out his mouth thoroughly; gurgling and spitting out water about a dozen times until his throat and mouth were marginally less on fire.

He grabbed a washbasin from under his sink and filled it with warm water. Then he plunged his bar of hard soap into it and worked up a very mild lather, then removed the bar, letting it slide wetly back into the glass soap dish, and had one of his shadows grab a clean hand towel.

Thus armed, he headed back to his room and sat down on the bed next to Lucifer’s unresponsive body. He bade shadows to pick up a chair and leave it next to the bed, where he used it as a makeshift table to place the washbasin on.

Would Lucifer mind being touched like this, Alastor wondered. He was always so concerned with the most nonsensical things. Perhaps it was selfish of him to do it anyways, since he couldn’t bear to look at all that blood any longer. (Alastor couldn’t even bear to look at his own body, which was drenched only marginally less than Lucifer’s.)

Alastor soaked one corner into the soapy water and with a deep inhale, brought the warm, wet cloth to Lucifer’s neck. At first he attempted a few dabs, but they weren’t very effective. It took him over ten minutes to find a technique that worked, the blood having congealed somewhat. Angelic blood was less prone to drying out in gross clumps, unlike the human kind. (For all that, there was still gold under Alastor’s fingernails.)

So this is where he finds himself at 2:20 in the morning, dragging the fourth towel (and fourth basin of clear water) across Lucifer’s pale hip. It feels worse than cleaning after his crime scenes did.

Mortal blood felt cleansing. They had deserved to die. After each kill, Alastor felt vindicated. He knew he wasn’t doing good, but he was doing a fair deal better by humanity than any deity he’d come across –the lying entity he was enslaved to included. Lucifer, by consequence, has never been allowed to do…whatever it was that good and proper angels were supposed to. His rebellion cost him significantly more than Alastor’s plunging into Hell ever did.

Alastor knows he has escaped punishment. It felt good to unintentionally cheat the system, but as he looks at Lucifer’s pale and lifeless body, he feels…

His hand halts midway down Lucifer’s thigh and he becomes acutely aware of his pruned fingertips and the suffocating humidity in his rooms. The emotion he’s feeling eludes him. He gazes at Lucifer’s unchanged expression, and his fingers twitch with the urge to brush the golden hair away from his face.

To tidy his sprawled, skewed wings and put them to rights.

To cover his body with something warm so he can…

Alastor blinks, frowning.

His rooms are so cold.

Unable to put his finger on it, Alastor resumes his efforts to clean Lucifer up. A long swipe of towel – rinse in the water – wring the towel – repeat. It’s almost meditative, provided he doesn’t think about the implications too much.

What’s going to happen when Lucifer comes to? And when can he expect that to happen? Should he take Lucifer to his rooms in the dead of night, to allow him to rest (and prevent anyone discovering Lucifer in his rooms, naked and unconscious). Alastor knows he can be persuasive, but this would be a hard sell, even for him.

‘Charlie, dear girl! I only ravished your father into unconsciousness, ha ha! He’s sleeping it off; you can come pick him up in a few hours – ta ta, now!’ That would go down well, he bets.

So he focuses on wiping Lucifer’s left knee clean. The less blood there’s left on his pale skin, the less Alastor feels like a murderer.

His hand halts mid-motion and his eyes go wide. He brings his left hand to his face and the touch of his own fingers is surprising, almost as if he has never connected with the sensation before. He covers his mouth and smothers a noise that attempts to rise unbidden from his throat.

Is this… regret?

Alastor swallows, panic rising in his limbs like tiny pinpricks, millions of them stabbing into his every nerve.

He’s not felt regret–

–or anything even remotely similar to regret, in–

Possibly ever?

Alastor forces himself to breathe. He must breathe. He is safe here. He had found his father in Hell, a decade after he arrived, and he painted the walls of an alley in Wrath with his guts. Patricide felt even more satisfying the second time around.

Alastor realizes that he has felt regret before.

Regret that he wasn’t strong enough to murder his father earlier; that he had to wait to grow as tall as him, and ambush him from behind.

He still remembers that first, unintended taste of blood as it sprayed across his face.

The memory is overwritten with the image of Lucifer choking on his own blood, his throat half-ripped out, and Alastor wants to hurl again. The warring sensations of delicious power and all-encompassing disgust engage in battle in his mind, unable to be reconciled. As he looks down into his lap, he finds himself mercifully unresponsive, as is his custom. Still, the sight of blood splatter across his flaccid length makes him feel sick. Disgust wins, vanquishing – at least temporarily – the part of his brain that would ordinarily want to lap up all of the blood still remaining like a starved animal, licking at his bicep, his elbow, anywhere he could reach.

Right now, he’d rather peel his own skin off than touch any of it.

He rinses the sodden towel once more, water sloshing in the basin as the wet fabric smacks against the rim. He pulls it up, watches as water drains out in rivulets, and squeezes both ends together, ignoring the gradual yellowing of the water below as the trick-trick-trickle of it cascades into the basin.

He brings the wet towel to Lucifer’s other thigh, and begins to wipe the last of the glistening blood off. He ignores, assiduously, the area in between. In his periphery, he can tell it’s shining with golden blood, but he avoids a direct confrontation with it. It makes him uncomfortable, and he cannot quite puzzle out why.

Was he any better than his father?

Of course he was, Alastor comforts himself. He wasn’t married to Lucifer, hadn’t made a commitment before God and the civil authorities to protect him, was under no obligation to provide him with anything – neither shelter, nor sustenance.

He didn’t owe Lucifer anything.

Except your free will, his mind whispers insidiously.

Alastor fights another wave of nausea as he swipes the towel down Lucifer’s pale thigh, hands shaking uncontrollably.

He doesn’t owe the King of Hell anything.

Except the deal you made and failed to uphold?

Deals were made to be exploited, broken, or leveraged. None of it was ever supposed to be fair. Fairness didn’t exist, not on Earth and not in Hell either. Alastor heavily suspects Heaven to be equally corrupt, albeit more complacent and full of self-righteous imbeciles such as Adam.

And before him, like an exquisite broken puppet, lies Lucifer Morningstar.

The dawn of human consciousness itself.

Alastor’s breath hitches, stitches in his face cutting viciously into his flesh that rejects the smile for the first time in well over a century. The smile is irrepressible, however, and it stays on despite the sensation that his cheeks are being ripped apart.

Did Lucifer plan this? Did he actually want to die in Alastor’s arms?

The image of Lucifer going slack in his grasp rises like a phantasm out of a grave and grips Alastor around the throat.

He abandons the wet towel across Lucifer’s thigh and folds in on himself, face buried in the messy, damp covers of his bed. He grips the fabric, crumpling it in his trembling fists, and shivers freely, unable to stop. “I’m sorry…” He murmurs into the fabric, infinitely relieved that Lucifer is out for the count and cannot see any of this. “I didn’t mean it.”

Lucifer’s shallow breathing remains the same, as steady as a gentle tide.

He doesn’t want Lucifer dead.

If Lucifer died…

Alastor looks up through his messy, damp fringe and stares at Lucifer’s pale visage. He would be damned if he let Lucifer squander his power this way. He promised to keep Lucifer accountable and that’s precisely what he intends to do.

But before he can do that, he will take responsibility for his own crime.

Alastor takes hold of the towel and rinses it once more – twice – thrice. He then turns and stares at the crux of Lucifer’s thighs, and at his bloodied genitalia. It looks more gruesome than anything Alastor has ever seen in his life, and he’s seen plenty. It looks somehow worse than disembowelment.

Probably because Lucifer is actually pure, or as pure as a sinless fallen angel stuck in Hell can be.

So, Alastor takes the accursed responsibility he feels and proceeds to wipe the blood off in gentle swipes. He hopes Lucifer won’t wake, as the sight would probably disturb him and Alastor would rather he get some rest.

Sprawled out like this, wings akimbo, Lucifer looks so vulnerable, like one of the many crying women Alastor has had to comfort. Would his visceral dislike for the man at first sight have been quite as acute had Lucifer been female? Alastor doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know, and that worries him.

Sure, he could freely admit that he was territorial. The Hotel was his base of operations, albeit a temporary one. Having the strongest being in Hell drop by and mess up his carefully laid out plans for swindling Charlotte Morningstar put him on high alert. The rest had been pure antipathy, plain and simple. The Ruler of Hell who was incapable of actually ruling.

Except, Alastor now knew it to be untrue – Lucifer wasn’t incapable, merely unwilling.

What could Alastor accomplish if he installed Lucifer on the throne proper? If he feigned support to uplift him, and then used Lucifer to purge Hell of its undesirable elements? They could cut across Hell like the ten plagues of Egypt, smiting every one of those disgusting Overlords who keep thousands or millions enslaved only to have them degrade themselves for eternity. Alastor uses his thralls strategically, employing them where they are best suited, and keeping them on a long and loose leash when not needed. That way, they are less likely to foster deadly resentment against him.

He liked the idea of unspecified favors to be cashed in at a later date. They tormented the one with the obligation with nasty possibilities considerably more than explicitly specific deals ever could.

Alastor refocuses on the task at hand. Lucifer’s genitals remain entirely unresponsive under his careful ministrations, which is a relief. He would hate to have to explain himself to Lucifer should he wake up – what could Alastor even say? ‘Good morning, your Majesty, oh I am just engaging in some palliative care, nothing to be bothered about, now could you kindly go back to your nap?’

Alastor rinses this towel for the last time and has his shadow fetch a fresh one, along with a basin of clear, tepid water. He will do one last careful pass over Lucifer’s skin and bathe him until there’s no trace of what had transpired between them at midnight. He’s not a man given to prayer, but he prays now that Lucifer remains blissfully unaware of what’s transpiring, as Alastor has no wish to be seen in flagrante delicto, bloodied from chest to groin, like a crazed murderer taking a bath in their victim’s blood. Alastor may be as un-saintly as possible, but he was no Elizabeth Bathory.

His blood still sings on your tongue…

Curse his tongue, Alastor thinks. It always got him in trouble. Just like Mimzy couldn’t help being drawn to the worst kind of men, Alastor couldn’t help but exercise his wit, even when it would be to his own detriment. (With his father, it always was – the brute was incapable of higher brain functions.)

The basin of fresh water gets deposited onto the chair and he accepts the clean towel out of his shadow’s hand.

One last time, he drenches the towel in the water and squeezes out the excess. The water runs clear, soothing his mind. Alastor scoots closer to wipe Lucifer’s face, keeping his touch especially gentle as he runs the towel over Lucifer’s closed eyelids. He brushes the errant strands of silken hair off of Lucifer’s forehead and swipes it back.

The rest of the Hotel slumbers, peaceful and undisturbed, as Alastor performs his penance in the dark.

His red-tipped fingers drag the towel down Lucifer’s shoulders and arms. Alastor washes his chest, his legs – his feet.

He has the macabre urge to spill his own blood and anoint Lucifer’s forehead with it – leaving a smear, an imprint of his thumb there.

Before him lies the only piece of divinity that Alastor has ever recognized as legitimate.

“We have work to do, my King.” Alastor murmurs, inspecting his pious endeavor.

He bids his shadow to remove the soiled towels and toss the water down the drain.

Lucifer’s holy blood will be coursing down the rivers of Hell tonight, trickling from Pride on top, all the way down to Sloth, like a benediction none of the sinners or hell-born are worthy of.

Alastor reaches for the crimson feathers with reverence and attempts, to the best of his abilities, to fold them into a more natural configuration. He smoothes the ruffled feathers as he goes and they turn to glossy silk between his fingers in a caress he can feel all the way down to his hooves.

Lucifer wasn’t simply beautiful, he was arresting. He was as fair as the Hell that surrounded him was foul; like an untainted well-spring protected by a wall of briars trying to fend off a horde of monsters trying to sully its pristine waters with their muddied, clawed feet.

And Alastor had come and bathed in the spring; shedding the blood of every sinner he has ever torn apart with his own hands to pollute it. Rather than a mindless beast, Alastor would much rather be the impenetrable briar wall.

His shadow hands him a clean blanket from his dresser, and he covers Lucifer’s immaculate form in dark crimson fabric. It looks uncomfortably like a burial shroud, save for Lucifer’s uncovered face.

Alastor rises and turns out his bedside lamp.

It’s finally time to get himself clean.

Chapter Text

After having taken a thorough shower that lasted for over an hour (and dry-heaving twice more), Alastor steps out of his steamed-up bathroom.  He’s greeted with the sound of acid rain pouring outside his windows, with the occasional crash of thunder. It’s been awhile since they’ve had a proper storm.

He morphs into shadow to dry his hair and skin (and the wretched appendage he tries hard not to think about on a daily basis) – the damned furry tuft atop his ass that he wishes he could just cut off and be done with it. Sadly, it seems to be intrinsic to his form and no amount of violence or transformative powers can make it go away, just like his horns and ears. At least his horns can turn properly menacing and thus serve some kind of purpose.

When he looks towards the bed, he notes that Lucifer is still in the exact same position Alastor left him in over an hour ago. A glance at the clock reveals it’s 4:02 in the morning.  Rain continues to drum against the window-panes as his King slumbers, undisturbed.

Now cleansed – at least in form if not in substance – Alastor heads for the bed with quiet steps.  Should he get in or not? He could always spend the night in the armchair, or even in the swing he keeps in the swamp, but then he would be unable to properly monitor Lucifer’s condition, which seems imprudent at this juncture.

Unbidden, he remembers Lucifer getting so flustered that he all but shouted at Alastor that the thought of cuddling him seemed appealing. Would Lucifer still want that? Alastor couldn’t tell, especially not after Lucifer’s little stunt earlier. Suicide by proxy, that’s a new one, even for Alastor. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t even mind – but not when it came to Lucifer; he was a special case. And if he wanted to be held accountable, Alastor would relish the opportunity.

Yes, if he crawls under the covers, he will be close enough to Lucifer to monitor his condition. As swiftly and quietly as he’s able, Alastor approaches the other side of the bed and carefully raises the covers to slip in. What with Lucifer’s wings, the space left over on the bed isn’t quite enough for the sprawling way he’s used to sleeping (on his belly), but desperate times call for desperate measures. He lies on his side, looking towards Lucifer, whose face is turned away from him.  Is his face still etched with that subtle frown, Alastor wonders? From his vantage point, and with the separation of a thin duvet and two blankets, the only thing he can see is the lifeless sprawl of crimson wings framed in snow white, and the long line of Lucifer’s neck, his hair fanned out in disarray. Lucifer remains covered from clavicle to toes, unmoving save for shallow breathing that Alastor has to strain to even hear.

His rooms are deathly silent, save for the subtle ticking of the clock on his wall. Even that damned clock is louder than Lucifer’s barely audible (yet mercifully even) breathing. The rain outside is unrelenting, at least, providing respite from the oppressive lack of noise around him. Alastor cannot bear the silence, but also cannot put any music on, as then he would be unable to listen for those faint signs of life that have begun to, inexplicably, matter to him in the past few hours. He burrows deeper under the covers and settles next to Lucifer, entirely separated from his smooth skin by three folded wings and all the bedcovers – and merely observes. Fine golden hairs glisten against Alastor’s dark bedding, like an illuminated spider web laden with dew, shimmering in the morning light.

Fiat Lux.

Let there be Light.

In his bed slumbers the dawn – sun timid and afraid to emerge beyond the horizon to bathe the world in its warm rays. Alastor closes his eyes for a moment, and can almost breathe in the smell of apple trees, feel the prickly heat of a balmy summer’s day, and hear the discordant twitter of birds. For just a moment, the pervasive smell of brimstone and sulfur abates, leaving him lost in a memory from above-ground. Roasting coffee on the stove, maman bustling in the kitchen, busy with the Sunday roast, and Alastor just setting the table, quiet and content. He swallows past the lump in his throat.

“The punishment didn’t fit the crime–” Alastor murmurs, hoping Lucifer cannot hear. “–when you were cast out.”

A muted, distant thud of thunder breaks the endless pitter-patter of raindrops beyond his windows.

“You didn’t deserve an eternity of this.”

Unlike me, Alastor swallows the thought.

He brushes the edge of Lucifer’s wing with the tip of his nose, knowing he is undeserving of the comfort.

“You deserve better.”

Lucifer’s soft breaths remain unchanged, as placid as wisps of clouds trailing lazily across a bright azure sky.

Despite himself, Alastor leans his cheek into the silky softness of Lucifer’s wings and lingers there, simply breathing in. It smells like clean ashes – like burnt cedar – a warm, sweet aroma with hints of spice, complex and layered and somehow comforting. Alastor dares not touch any other part of Lucifer, but cannot help the way he sighs against the whisper-soft feathers.

The rain continues to fall against the glass, trickling down in streaks.

Alastor closes his eyes, and wonders whether Lucifer is cold under just one blanket.

Before he can address the issue further, sleep creeps up on him and his breathing evens out to match.

Somewhere far above, a timid yet victorious sun breaches the horizon. 

Alastor awakens with a start, ears twitching as he shudders awake – grasping desperately for consciousness. How long was he out? The noise of gentle rain fills his senses, and then his visual inspection of the environment reveals two very important things – firstly, it’s around 5:30 in the morning (he fervently hopes it’s still morning and not afternoon), and second – Lucifer has moved at some point, as he is now lying on his side, face turned towards Alastor, still asleep. His facial expression reveals some discomfort, likely from having slept for hours on his trapped wings.

Alastor chides himself mentally for not turning Lucifer over sooner. He could have arranged the wings atop Lucifer’s back in a way that wouldn’t be nearly as uncomfortable.

For a moment he’s conflicted. It’s early, yet. He should let Lucifer sleep more, as his form clearly needs to recover, but the thought of leaving him in pain for much longer simply doesn’t sit well with him.

“Lucifer,” Alastor rasps, voice disused and heavy from sleep. “Wake up.”

Lucifer doesn’t stir, his breathing and expression unchanged. Alastor takes him in, his delicate features, his uncanny, almost unnatural beauty and feels wrong for disturbing Lucifer’s hard-won (and criminally-induced) rest.

“Lucifer,” Alastor says softly, hoping the tone will be less jarring to wake up to. “Please wake up.”

He reaches out to touch Lucifer’s cold cheek. The sensation is jarring against the hellish warmth of his own.

Lucifer makes the tiniest grumbling noise in the back of his throat.

“Lucifer,” Alastor repeats softly.

Lucifer turns minutely into the touch. Alastor sighs and cradles Lucifer’s pale cheek.

“Mnnn,” Lucifer murmurs, still half-asleep. “Lily?”

Something in Alastor’s gut falls out, like a pilot’s seat getting ejected out of a crashing airplane.

“I’m afraid not,” Alastor says wryly. “She seems to be indisposed at the moment.”

Lucifer’s frown deepens and his eyes crack open, the tiniest bit. He makes a confused noise and Alastor barely dares to breathe as he waits for awareness to kick in.

“Nn–“ Lucifer mumbles and Alastor can tell the exact moment comprehension kicks in, because Lucifer’s mild and hopeful expression drops like a stone down a bottomless well. “You,” he says, like a curse uttered by a witch getting burned at the stake. Alastor withdraws his hand immediately, as if burned. With a pained groan, Lucifer flops back onto his back and slowly, in increments, takes in the room around him.

“I’m still alive?” Lucifer states in a groggy tone, staring at the ceiling with a cavernously empty gaze. “That’s disappointing.”

The words pierce through Alastor like spears tipped in acid. Even after everything that’s happened last night, Lucifer still wants to die. It occurs to Alastor that perhaps, Lucifer has wanted to die for a very, very long time, and simply didn’t for the love of his wife and then daughter. Was Charlie’s conception Lilith’s last attempt at getting Lucifer back? And now that she’s gone, Lucifer’s suicidal thoughts – how much more imminent and pervasive were they?

Alastor feels compelled to do…something.

Anything to get Lucifer’s mind off of it.

“Would you like me to put on some music?” Alastor asks, as carefully as he’s able.

Lucifer huffs. “What, all out of Scheherazade?”

“You knew what it was?”

“If course I fucking knew what it was,” Lucifer narrows his eyes in Alastor’s direction. “Tell me, who’s the concubine and who the Sultan, in that little power-trip fantasy of yours?”

“You think I’m Shahryar?” Alastor asks in surprise. He had been thinking more along the lines of the golden slave, but…

“Scheherazade is the one that’s supposed to be getting killed, just like the other brides he took,” Lucifer remarks. “How am I the Sultan here, when I’m not allowed to kill you? How does that even compute?”

“I–“ Alastor flounders. “I wasn’t thinking of it in those terms.”

“You didn’t want power over me, to have me at your mercy?” Lucifer asks; eyes now fully focused and alert. “To kill me, if you could?”

“I didn’t want to kill you,” Alastor reiterates, discomfited with the direction the conversation was heading.

Lucifer laughs, high and hollow. “You think what you wanted actually matters?” His stare is sharper than shrapnel.

Alastor doesn’t understand what Lucifer means by this – is he referring to what Alastor means to him in particular (which is clearly almost nothing) or is he talking about nearly having made Alastor into his most recent suicide method?

“For someone who cares so much about consent, you sure didn’t ask me whether I wanted to aid in your little suicide attempt.”

“It would have been a mercy killing, asshole.” Lucifer states flatly. “I guess you aren’t capable of mercy either.”

“That’s…” The words die in Alastor’s mouth, since he finds – to his dismay – that he cannot even refute them.

“Wow. Why did I ever expect anything from you?” Lucifer says in a tone that’s both resignation and disappointment, wrapped up in a neat little bow. He gets up slightly and throws off his blanket, clearly intending to leave as soon as possible–

– and then stops dead in his tracks as he takes in his completely nude form.

Alastor waits with bated breath. Will Lucifer punish him for taking liberties – for having washed him clean?

“Where did the blood go?” Lucifer murmurs, clearly to himself.

“I washed it away.” Alastor says quietly. “You didn’t consent, I know.”

Lucifer looks at him, something shocked and uncomprehending in his expression.

“I tried to put your wings to rights, but you were lying on your back and I didn’t want to touch you any more than I had to–”

“You cleaned me.” Lucifer interrupts, superfluously. “How?” Alastor doesn’t understand the question at all, and it must give Lucifer pause, because he opts to explain. “Demonic powers don’t work on my blood.”

“I figured that out when I vomited all over my carpet, thank you.” Alastor cannot help but say in aggravation, pointing towards the offending stain.

Lucifer looks alarmed and follows his gaze to the dark, still vaguely glistening pool of sick stewing in the middle of his carpet.

“I tried to magic it away, but it didn’t really work.”

“How did you remove the blood from me, then?” Lucifer asks, tightly wound and vaguely terrified.

Alastor blinks. “Water. I just used…water.”

What, did Lucifer think Alastor spent the entire night licking him clean? Nausea re-awakens in his gut.

“You…. Put me in a shower?” Lucifer asks, reaching for his hair and checking for moisture there.

“No… I didn’t move you from the bed.”

Lucifer’s gaze lands on the abandoned basin of water and half-dried towel hung across the back of the chair.

“You… by hand?” Lucifer asks in astonishment, turning towards Alastor fully, sat upright with arms supporting his position, his wings flexing sinuously behind him, so large they are brushing across Alastor’s bed covers. The contrast is deeply pleasing to the eye.

Alastor sits upright as well and has his shadow turn on his bedside lamp, which lights up behind Lucifer, illuminating him in a burst of honeyed light.

“It seemed only right.” Alastor says quietly.

Lucifer touches his neck – finds the wound healed – and inspects the rest of his skin, even going so far as to peer under the blanket at his legs. And what lies between them, Alastor supposes, though he refuses to dwell on it.

“I don’t see any–“ Lucifer remarks. “How thorough.”

Alastor dares not say a word. He has wronged Lucifer and must await the punishment that is sure to follow.

“Was it delicious?” Lucifer asks; a dangerous edge to his tone. The way he lounges on Alastor’s bed is perfectly at odds with the sharp gleam in his eyes.

“Delicious?” Alastor asks, voice strained as nausea rises and spreads all the way to his throat.

“My blood. Did you not feast after I was out?” Lucifer asks in an almost teasing tone.

The mere mention of feasting – the memory of Lucifer’s ripped-out throat – and Alastor clamps a hand over his mouth, turning to his left to retch over the side of his bed. Bile burns all the way up, leaving his throat on fire as he attempts to expel something that’s no longer there, any blood in his system having been purged several hours ago. He hacks and gags, tears burning in his eyes from the strain. For a few agonizing moments, he cannot stop the reflex, despite nothing coming up.

“You…did partake after I was out, right?” Lucifer asks, a shade more uncertain than before.

Alastor spits out a glob of bile-tinged saliva and banishes the mess with sheer magical power the second it hits the floor. Luckily for him, it stays gone this time around. He turns slowly, breath coming in cramped, painful spurts.

“Not a single drop,” Alastor swears.

“I find that hard to believe.” Lucifer admits, though his expression loses its razor edge.

Alastor’s eyes prickle.

“I almost–” He chokes, trying to will his tears away – banish them – but they burn in his eyes, the traitors.  “I nearly killed you!”

Lucifer’s smile wobbles and drops. “You sound almost…remorseful. Hah. As if.”

Alastor begins to shake and a tear burns a streak across his cheek.

“I swear on my mother, that I didn’t taste any of your accursed blood after my mouth first left your neck.”

Why won’t Lucifer believe him? It hurts so badly, Alastor’s insides screaming and tearing, his flesh convulsing helplessly as he tries to regain some small semblance of control. And fails utterly.

“As soon as you passed out, I put you on the bed and expelled every last bit of it – right –there.”

“You look wretched.” Lucifer says, no longer quite as angered.

“I never want to see you attempt anything like that, ever again!” Alastor growls.

“What, do I need your permission or something?” Lucifer snorts.

“You told me to hold you accountable, and I fully intend to.” Alastor says seriously, leaning towards Lucifer in an attempt to bring the point home.

Lucifer has the good sense to look away, avoiding the confrontation for the moment.

“Oh, fuck. It’s almost six.” Lucifer takes notice of the time.

“Is there somewhere you have to be?” Alastor asks, more harshly than he intended.

“Breakfast with Charlie at nine.” Lucifer states matter of factly.

“And you still asked me to kill you yesterday?”

Lucifer looks at him flatly and shrugs. “The mood struck.”

Alastor frowns, something in him aching at the careless delivery.

“And pray tell, how often do these moods strike?” Alastor asks, upset despite himself. “On average?”

Lucifer takes a deep breath and tilts his head backwards, golden hair falling in a cascade.

“Since I moved in here? Hm… twice a day on average?”

“And when in my company?” Alastor asks, afraid of the question in advance.

Lucifer looks at him from this odd angle and smirks playfully. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Fine, you asked for it.” Lucifer chuckles. “When we’re dancing? None. When you fuck me? Maybe once.”

“And when we fight?” Alastor asks, knowing he’ll likely hate whatever comes next.

“Every time you remind me why I’m a failure.”

Alastor tries to tally up the instances and the number he comes up with is… not something he enjoys staring in the face.

“I don’t think you’re a failure.” Alastor says softly.

“Sure you don’t.” Lucifer laughs, like Alastor’s said a particularly absurd joke. “Broken, then.”

“Exquisitely broken,” Alastor amends.

Lucifer gives him a peculiar look of what Alastor chooses to interpret as wry amusement.

“Do you like broken things, Alastor?”

“They’re the only things worth keeping.” He answers truthfully. People who are whole, who have no injury, no trauma, the pure ones… they don’t move in the same circles as Alastor – never have. Heaven wanted to believe that anyone had the equal opportunity to ascend, but that was absolute bull in Alastor’s opinion. He’d like to see hosts of angels get born in poverty, in slavery, to alcoholic and abusive parents, and see how they’d grow up, nurtured on nothing but bitterness and neglect. How pure could one be, when they’d never known a kind word, never received a helping hand?

“Am I something to be kept?” Lucifer asks, deceptively mildly.

“No,” Alastor says firmly, despite his desires. “You are to be released.”

Lucifer shivers and his wings retreat to the safety of his immaculate back.

“Be as broken as you’d like,” Alastor says as he leans in to drop a kiss on the slope of Lucifer’s pale shoulder. “As long as you keep fighting.”

“Since when do you care?” Lucifer asks quietly, his expression entirely genuine for the first time tonight.

“Since I accepted your dominion.”

Lucifer looks at him, expression inscrutable and somehow more genuine for it.

“Let me protect you from yourself.” Alastor murmurs, looking up at Lucifer from up close.

“And who will protect me from you?” Lucifer asks.

“Haven’t I proven I am incapable of killing you tonight?”

Lucifer sighs. “I can’t keep up; I’m too tired for this. Will you let me sleep for another hour before I leave? I’m warm and I don’t want to move.”

Alastor feels the impulse to close the distance between them, but manages to resist it.

“It’s warmer under the covers.”

Lucifer looks at him softly, the edges of his smile teasing and soft. “Are you asking me for a cuddle, Alastor?”

“I suppose I am.”

Lucifer looks down at his lips and Alastor swallows.

“I’m too tired to keep my form, mind if I make myself smaller?” Lucifer asks, covering his yawn with the back of his right hand.

“If you get any smaller, I’ll need a microscope to find you.”

“Hah!” Lucifer barks out a laugh and swats Alastor’s bare chest. “You’re such a catty bitch, I can’t!”

“Can’t what?” Alastor asks, entirely puzzled by the clearly missing piece of the sentence, but it only makes Lucifer laugh harder as he turns on his side and giggles, clutching his stomach.

“Can’t what, Lucifer?” Alastor asks, both bemused and perturbed in equal measure.

“Shut up and let me under the covers,” Lucifer says, hard-pressed to breathe through his laughter.

Still bemused, Alastor lets Lucifer get up so he can pull the covers back and get in.

Lucifer crawls in, lithe and naked and beautiful and Alastor tries to remain composed as his personal space is invaded. Lucifer sidles up to him and plasters himself against Alastor’s side, his cool skin almost scalding. Lucifer sighs, content. “So warm…” he murmurs against Alastor’s shoulder, and he gets the odd impulse to wrap his arm around Lucifer, but is too slow to react.

“Wake me up later,” Lucifer reminds him sleepily and no sooner has Alastor nodded his assent, Lucifer melts against him transforming into a small, white snake with a tiny red tail which slithers up Alastor’s arm and makes a little nest for itself over his heart, coiling up and stilling there.

With bated breath, Alastor bids his tendrils to set his alarm clock and turn out the light on his bedside table, careful not to jostle the snake already slumbering on his breast.

He places a gentle hand on Lucifer’s scaled head and covers them both with the duvet.

“Good night…”

…my Prince.

Chapter Text

The alarm clock goes off in the darkness, causing Alastor to groan. He smacks it quiet with his hand, forgetting momentarily that he’s not alone in his bed. The snake slumbering on his chest stirs, and Alastor can feel a subtle brush of a forked tongue against his skin from under the covers.

Alastor pulls the duvet up to assess Lucifer’s state and no sooner has he caught sight of pearly white scales, does Lucifer reform on top of him, yawning and visibly tired. The added weight is less than Alastor expected, but the sensation of a soft, sinuous body atop his own is almost too much to bear.

“Mnhh–“ Lucifer mumbles most incoherently, his eyes not even at half-mast, hair a tousled mess and for all that, more pleasing than his usual sleek style. “Ngh.” Lucifer concludes and flops down on Alastor’s chest, cheek smooshed against Alastor’s sternum.

On impulse, Alastor brushes a few strands of Lucifer’s hair out of his face. It nets him a burrowing squirm, Lucifer sighing in contentment.

It’s so warm under the covers.

Lucifer’s skin is still colder than his own, but nowhere near as chilly as it was a few hours prior. He is surprised that Lucifer seems to find this position comfortable enough to remain where he is, but Alastor sees no good reason to dislodge him just yet. Alastor would like a few more moments of sleep himself after the last night’s exhausting ordeal. Half-consciously, he places a hand on Lucifer’s bare shoulder and brushes his thumb across his pale skin.

“Mmmnn,” Lucifer murmurs and his body almost chases the touch. The skin under Alastor’s fingertips is so smooth, so soft, that on a whim, he runs his hand down Lucifer’s shoulder blades and down his back. The touch elicits a shiver and an undulating movement that makes Alastor groan softly, the sound unexpectedly jarring in the morning quiet. He closes his mouth to muffle the sound that was coaxed out of him, and runs a lazy hand down Lucifer’s side, enjoying the velvety contours of his slender form.

“Nnh–“ Lucifer’s subdued moan ghosts across Alastor’s skin in a humid whisper. Lucifer’s left hand is resting against his chest, fingers twitching minutely as Alastor continues to caress him. Alastor closes his eyes and simply enjoys the joint sensation of touch and Lucifer’s response to his ministrations.

“Nnn, what are you doing?” Lucifer murmurs sleepily, his face still half-buried against Alastor’s chest.

“Shut up and sleep for a few more minutes,” Alastor grumbles, unwilling to stop what he’s doing.

“You’re poking me.” Lucifer half-whines, and Alastor’s eyes crack open in annoyance. Why couldn’t he just shut up and not spoil the moment?

“Poking you? What with? My hipbones?” Alastor mutters in aggravation, knowing full well he hasn’t used his claws on Lucifer for a single moment since they woke up.

Lucifer groans on top of him, spine arching slightly. “Hnngh, are you even aware of what you’re doing?”

“Touching an ungrateful wretch?” Alastor offers with a frown.

Lucifer un-plasters his cheek from his skin and looks up at Alastor, gaze accusatory. “Can you really not feel it?”

“Feel what?” Alastor hisses in annoyance, hand stilling on Lucifer’s shoulder, fingers grasping it in subtle warning.

“Wow, you’re really bad at this, aren’t you?” Lucifer shakes his head, tousled strands of golden hair falling into his eyes. Lucifer blows upwards to dislodge them and clear his vision.

Alastor’s eyes narrow further.

“You’ve been grinding up into me since you started touching me.” Lucifer says bluntly.

Was he? Alastor hasn’t noticed. He blinks down at Lucifer in complete bafflement.

Lucifer bites his lip and his hips stutter downwards. The movement is uncoordinated and filthy, sending a rush of scalding warmth down Alastor’s skin, like a bad rash.

“I thought you didn’t get morning wood, asshat.” Lucifer says crossly, his words quite at odds with the eager movement of his body.

“What?”

“You’re rutting against my hip – and you’re hard – the fuck?” Lucifer explodes and a deep flush suffuses his skin from his cheeks all the way down to his neck.

Alastor blinks and cranes his neck to try and confirm Lucifer’s assertions, and sure enough, he seems to be aroused.

“Huh,” Alastor says, genuinely surprised. “I don’t even notice these when they happen.”

“How can you not?”

Alastor shrugs minutely, as much as his current position allows. “It goes away on its own.”

“So, you never… deal with it another way?” Lucifer attempts to play at being circumspect.

“If you are referring to self-abuse, no. I do not.”

“You don’t masturbate?” Lucifer asks, astonished. “Not ever?”

“Why would I?” Alastor points out. “It does nothing for me.”

“But…you liked my mouth on you?”

“So?”

“I mean… if it does absolutely nothing for you… my mouth shouldn’t really make a difference.”

Alastor pauses at that. That is…infuriatingly logical. His hand or Lucifer’s mouth, it really shouldn’t matter. And yet, the mere memory of Lucifer’s tongue twining around his shaft coaxes a groan out of him. Lucifer bites back a moan, hips caught in a halted rocking movement.

“Maybe–” Lucifer ventures, still flushed, and definitively more awake, “–you need someone else’s touch?”

“Are you volunteering?” Alastor asks, shocked to hear his voice turning slightly breathless.

“Do you see anyone else here?” Lucifer deadpans, annoyance creasing his brow.

“Not for the moment,” Alastor says blithely, sorely tempted to make another joke aimed at Lucifer’s size, but refrains. The fallen angel doesn’t need size to tear Alastor into shreds whenever the mood strikes him. He shivers. “It’s…worth a try?”

Lucifer’s breath reveals how affected he is by his terms being accepted. “May I… touch you?”

Alastor savors the taut, desperate line of Lucifer’s flexible spine and trails a caress down his arm, touching the facsimile of those pretty opera gloves, fading into his skin.

“You may.”

Lucifer shudders on top of him, and all but crawls down Alastor’s torso. It shouldn’t do anything to Alastor, what with him being nearly immune to carnal matters (unless they pertain to actual meals), but the way Lucifer moves over him, his extended arms maneuvering around him, his smooth thighs flexing and tightening as he comes to kneel over him…

It does something, alright.

It makes him throb.

And Lucifer, sat half-atop his thighs, is equally aroused. Alastor stares at the coiling, writhing tension spelled out so obviously in every line of Lucifer’s body, and savors every last bit of it. How much more effective would religion be if they sculpted God like this? Lucifer is like living marble, except so warm, and trebling, and full of need Alastor can’t tear his eyes away from him.

Lucifer is staring down at him like he wants to have him for breakfast. Alastor suppresses a groan.

Black fingers ghost against his length, careful and almost hesitant, and Lucifer looks him in the eye, expression fearful, almost as if he’s scared that Alastor will tell him to stop and throw him face-first out into the corridor. The image is amusing, but the touch is…

It’s…

Lucifer touches his tip and smears the beading fluid he finds there with the pad of his thumb. Alastor swallows; saliva thick and almost coarse as it travels down his throat.

“May I try something?” Lucifer asks, eyes eager and alight.

“Wasn’t that the point of this little experiment?” Alastor points out, blunt and to the point.

“Oh, bite me.” Lucifer retorts with an eye-roll.

Alastor would really rather not.

Lucifer clearly takes his comment as a sign to proceed (and he is correct to assume that), because the next thing that happens is Lucifer aligning his erection against Alastor’s, and the contrast of color between them is deeply fascinating. Lucifer’s grasp remains light and tentative.

“Your hand doesn’t reach around,” Alastor points out, the last dregs of his drowsiness dissipating.

Lucifer gives him an angry, petulant little look and Alastor realizes his error.

“Apologies, it wasn’t meant to be a slight.”

Lucifer’s expression turns feral.  “Slight? Really?”

A chuckle explodes out of Alastor, brief and aborted, but genuine.

“Wait,” Lucifer’s eyes narrow, the movement of his hand halted for the moment. “That wasn’t on purpose?”

“It wasn’t,” Alastor admits, his grin winning out. “Still funny, though.”

Lucifer growls and bends forward to playfully bite at his side, near Alastor’s exposed waist. It tickles, more than anything. Alastor laughs at Lucifer’s frustration and reaches a hand towards Lucifer’s, completing the encirclement that Lucifer’s slender fingers couldn’t.

“Let me help.” Alastor offers, the suggestiveness deliberate, and Lucifer shudders with a strangled moan as Alastor’s fingers intertwine with his over their combined arousal.

Onyx black over darkest gray, rose over a darkened stem. Lucifer’s eyes flutter closed as he moans, strident and almost pained. The touch of his hand still does nothing for Alastor, but the touch of Lucifer’s…that’s a different matter. Since he has no idea how this is usually supposed to go, Alastor relinquishes the control over the rhythm to Lucifer, and attempts to synchronize as much as he can. Despite his best efforts, Lucifer’s hands set a confusing, disjointed pace, making it nearly impossible for him to match up into a seamless experience, but Lucifer seems to be dying in his lap regardless, writhing and lost in sensation.

Alastor focuses, briefly, on the feeling of their fingers so entwined, on the slide of skin against scalding skin, and has to concede that it has an effect – if a thoroughly maddening one. Lucifer’s eyelids keep fluttering, but his eyes remain closed. Alastor wonders whether Lucifer is imagining he is somewhere else – with someone else. Can he even imagine this is Lilith’s touch, with their fingers clasped together?

“Lucifer,” he says in a deep tone, the overlaying crackle of static flaring up temporarily. Look at me, he thinks – he wills. Not at Lilith. Not at the past, glorious and broken; not at something that is over and dust in the wind – swept away into the pit of hellish oblivion.

Reluctantly summoned out of his thoughts, Lucifer’s gaze meets his, and the heat of it immolates Alastor from the inside out. He can feel the spasm as it hits, the overbearing clench of disused flesh as it yields to the pressure exerted upon it. With a shuddering groan, he spills all over their entwined fingers and Lucifer – beautiful and ardent like a forest fire – follows him straight over the edge with a full-body shiver. The noise he makes in that beautiful white throat is eerily reminiscent of someone choking at the end of a tightened garrote (Alastor would know).

For the next few seconds, stretched lazily into infinity, there is only the sound of their labored breathing in the dark. Alastor doesn’t want to move, the lassitude encroaching upon his limbs once again. He realizes somewhere far off in his brain, that his stomach feels hollow with hunger. He should really go to the kitchens and pilfer a steak or two.

Lucifer’s fingers twitch and recognizing the intent, Alastor loosens his grasp, holding his half-drenched fingers aloft so they don’t drip all over his rather crumpled bedding. Lucifer pulls his hand back and inspects their intermingled essences with polite interest. Before Alastor can compute the thought, Lucifer splays his fingers and licks a long stripe from his palm to the tips of his fingers.

A debauched smile graces his lips.

“Hmm…earthy.”

Alastor cocks his head at the odd comment. “…what?”

Lucifer’s smile turns wicked as he licks between his fingers, lapping up their mixed seed. “Tastes like petrichor.”

“Isn’t petrichor a smell?” Alastor asks.

Lucifer shrugs with his index finger sucked into his mouth, humming around the digit. It comes out with a soft pop, faintly glistening with his saliva. “Close enough.”

Alastor reaches out and grabs Lucifer’s wrist, pulling his arm closer. He looks at Alastor, more intrigued than alarmed, and Alastor sits up enough to reach Lucifer’s stained left hand. He turns it so it’s facing palm downwards and licks at the two digits Lucifer has missed. Careful not to nick his skin, Alastor draws the slender black fingers into his mouth and sucks away every stray drop of their mingled emissions, lips and tongue catching around Lucifer’s wedding band. If he could, he would slide it off and swallow it, like a great underwater beast, so it would never resurface again. If only Lucifer wouldn’t gut him afterwards to retrieve it…

Lucifer sits on top of him, frozen and spellbound.

Good, Alastor thinks. That is how it should be.

Like a delayed chemical reaction, the taste blooms in his mouth, bitter and heady like strong liquor on an empty stomach. He turns Lucifer’s palm the other way and licks it clean, slow and thorough as he stares into Lucifer’s eyes.

“Mmm, found another fluid of mine to get addicted to?” Lucifer asks lazily, the tone implying the words to be a joke.

“How potent of a drug is this one?” Alastor asks in a drawl, drawing a small circle in the middle of Lucifer’s palm with his tongue.

“You tell me,” Lucifer purrs, content to watch Alastor at play.

“I will be sure to tell you if I suddenly develop a craving,” Alastor says lightly and drops a perfunctory kiss on Lucifer’s knuckles before relinquishing his hand.

 Lucifer’s smile is lazy and satisfied. “Will I get this kind of treatment more often in the future, or only when I almost die the night before?”

Alastor’s mood sinks like the Titanic.

“Don’t say things like that.”

Something in his voice must give Lucifer pause, because his teasing countenance melts away, replaced instead with a kind of resigned softness.

“It…was meant as a joke. Sorry.”

Alastor melts his right hand into shadows, successfully banishing the rest of the sticky, rapidly cooling mess off of his skin.

“I didn’t find it particularly funny.” Alastor states primly, trying to swallow the bile attempting to crawl up his throat.

Lucifer sighs and sits up fully. “I should go.”

“You have a bit over an hour left,” Alastor points out, propped up on his elbows.

“I need a shower,” Lucifer says mournfully.

“Take it here,” Alastor suggests. “Unless you want to walk down the corridor naked?”

Lucifer’s cheeks color slightly. “Yeah, that would be bad.”

“And I suggest you eat something.”

Lucifer quirks one of his eyebrows. “I will eat breakfast with Charlie, remember?” With that, he attempts to dismount Alastor but wobbles a bit, his balance suddenly off-kilter. Alastor rushes to steady him, hands grasping Lucifer’s shoulders before he can crash onto the floor.

Lucifer looks disoriented for a moment, eyes losing focus. When he looks up at Alastor, all puzzled by his unintended moment of weakness, Alastor says: “What did I tell you?”

“I don’t get dizzy. I…that doesn’t happen.”

“Apparently it does when you lose a few gallons of blood.” Alastor states grimly.

Lucifer blinks past the disorientation he’s feeling and attempts to deepen his breathing.

“Maybe you should cancel your appointment,” Alastor suggests.

Lucifer looks at him in annoyance. “And tell her what? That I got sick overnight? I don’t get sick!”

Alastor swallows the thought that Lucifer’s sickness is entirely in his mind, as opposed to his body.

“Fine, but you can’t see her like this, you’ll collapse. What will you tell her when you do?”

Lucifer rolls his eyes and pushes himself off of Alastor, stepping onto the floor one leg at a time, steadier than Alastor would have expected him to be. With a nonchalant hand gesture, Lucifer says: “I’ll tell her I got fucked six ways till Sunday and can’t walk.”

Alastor tilts his head and squints at Lucifer.

“Is that meant to be another joke?”

“Of course it’s a joke, you idiot!” Lucifer blows up at him, his weakness temporarily displaced by anger. “Do you think I want to bring attention to whatever the fuck this is?”

“Then take a fucking shower and eat something before you leave!” Alastor growls and jumps to his feet, suddenly towering over Lucifer as is his custom.

“Ugh, fine!” Lucifer says and turns on his heel, stomping away to the bathroom, his pale feet slapping against Alastor’s hardwood floors. Even when tense and fuming, Lucifer’s movements somehow manage to come across as infuriatingly graceful. Alastor wonders whether that too is a feature of angelic grace – that almost preternatural sense of balance and poise, even when wrecked inside.

How wrecked is Lucifer, really? How thin is the thread holding him together? Is it a sharp wire like Alastor’s smile, or is it something more yielding? How close is it to unraveling at any given moment?

Alastor reforms completely in a swirl of shadows and creeps into his dresser to fetch a new outfit, grateful that he has a few alternatives at the ready (prepared for instances when someone actually manages to destroy his clothing). It takes only mental effort to meld with his clothes, his corset posing the greatest challenge. Most days he puts it on the regular way, takes the time to lace himself up properly, but now there’s no time for the sartorial ritual he has come to enjoy.

He emerges from his shadow, fully corporeal once more, and as prim and proper as is his custom. With a flick of his wrist, his trusty staff materializes in his hand, and he stands straighter, right hand behind his back. He heads towards the bathroom and doesn’t expect to find the doors wide open, Lucifer standing in his bathtub, fiddling with his shower. Alastor observes in silence as Lucifer curses at the sputtering spray of hot water and attempts to regulate the temperature. The water soaks Lucifer’s hair, plastering it to his scalp, thin strands of darkened gold contrasting against his skin like slender, tiny snakes.

“Uhhh, where the fuck is your body wash?” Lucifer asks, hand reaching into nothingness, almost as if he’s expecting Alastor to materialize it out of thin air.

“The soap is right in front of your face,” Alastor points out.

Lucifer turns, squinting dangerously at him. “Soap. You wash your hair with soap too?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Alastor asks, genuinely confused.

“No wonder it looks the way it does.”

“And what would that be exactly?” Alastor says, supremely irritated by the aspersions cast against his hygiene.

“A stringy, dried out mess.” Lucifer says deadpan and turns into the warm spray, lightly scrubbing down his arms.

“You won’t die if you use soap once, Your Majesty.” Alastor retorts sarcastically.

Lucifer picks it up and sniffs it. His lip curls and he turns to glare at Alastor. “Yeah, no can do. I’m not using this.”

“And why not?” Alastor growls.

Lucifer looks at him incredulously; brandishing the dry bar of soap like it’s a dirty sock. “Uhh, you wanna explain to everyone at the Hotel why I smell like eau-de-swamp? Or are you ok with everyone knowing where I spent the night?”

Alastor hadn’t considered that. Lucifer smelling like Alastor’s brand of soap would raise some eyebrows. He shudders at the thought of Husker sniffing that one out.

“Fair point,” he concedes reluctantly. “Could I fetch it from your rooms?”

Lucifer sighs in defeat. “No, because my rooms are warded against entry when I’m not there. And I’m too tired right now to lift them.”

“What about your clothes?” Alastor asks, an unhelpful part of his brain trying to imagine Lucifer trying to put one of his shirts on. He would be positively swimming in it, sleeves hanging off of his arms like he’s pretending to be an old-timey ghost.

“What about them?” Lucifer says lazily, basking in the warmth under the spray.

“Where did you banish them to, yesterday?” Alastor asks, wondering whether Lucifer’s little date with his daughter will have to get cancelled anyways.

Lucifer looks over his shoulder and gives him a coy little smile. “What will you give me for the answer?”

Alastor’s left eyebrow climbs into his hairline. “I’ll get your ungrateful self a snack from the kitchen. And a cup of coffee.”

Lucifer’s eyes crinkle with mirth. “Sounds good.”

“What do you want?” Alastor asks, impatient to get underway.

Lucifer’s hands are in his hair, elbows up in the air, and he speaks through the unintended framing his arm provides, his face the epitome of temptation, voice too careless to be anything but affectation. “I want you in the shower in those clothes, soaked to the bone.”

Alastor blinks past the unpleasant image (and sensation) this provokes.

“I meant what food you wanted.”

Lucifer’s bright peal of laughter bounces off his tiles. “Something you don’t need to cook. Some fruit or cake or whatever. As long as it’s easy to eat.”

“Should have known you would go for something overly sweet,” Alastor shudders in the doorway.

Lucifer gives him an infuriatingly smug little side-glance. “Go fetch, Alastor.”

Alastor feels his blood pressure spiking. How dare he insinuate that Alastor is at his beck and call, like some kind of common… dog!

“Not without you answering my question.” He says, unmoving from his spot, the hot steam wafting up into the air, and rolling off the bath like an incoming fog bank, Lucifer just standing there like a lighthouse beckoning far-away ships.

“I banished them to your wardrobe.”

“You’re lying.” Alastor says automatically.

Lucifer sticks out his forked tongue and touches the tip of his upper teeth. “You’re welcome to check.”

Alastor narrows his eyes at Lucifer and makes his way out of the bathroom with quick strides. He flings the door of his wardrobe open, hinges creaking ominously at his abruptness. His eyes flick through his vestments and there, at the far left end of the rail, on a golden hanger, is Lucifer’s outfit, his boots tucked under it on the bottom of the armoire, next to Alastor’s dance shoes. On the shelf above the rail, where Alastor keeps a small collection of hats he hasn’t worn in ages, in garish contrast, perches Lucifer’s ridiculously tacky white top hat.

With a sneer, Alastor slams the door closed and stalks back to the bathroom.

How dare Lucifer try to commit suicide via proxy and just… leave such incriminating evidence in Alastor’s closet! Not that Lucifer’s CORPSE wouldn’t have been incriminating enough, but there was always the option to EAT the fucker, blood, bones and all, to get rid of the evidence. It would have probably killed him, but that outcome was preferable to being caught gold-handed trying to drop Lucifer’s carcass down the laundry chute thirteen stories high.

“What kind of sick mind leaves evidence of his suicide behind in someone else’s rooms? Unless you were trying to destroy us both in one fell swoop?”

Lucifer – the audacity of it – fucking giggles.

“Honestly–” Lucifer drawls in a superior tone,” –it was a toss-up between murder and a damn good fuck, so…”

“Sex and death hold the same weight in your head?” Alastor asks incredulously, more than a little irate. “Who’s insane now?”

“We’re both insane, Alastor.” Lucifer says easily. “What doesn’t track?”

Alastor wants to murder him. He really, really fucking does. But the second he recalls how it felt to cradle Lucifer’s lifeless body, the murderous rage vanishes like a stick of cotton candy dropped in a puddle.

“I’ll be back. You better be done with that shower by the time I do.” Alastor warns him.

“Or what?” Lucifer says arrogantly, bent forward and scrubbing at his milky-white thigh with both of his hands, fingers kneading the muscle in a way that makes Alastor look away.  

“Or I will make you walk to breakfast naked.” Alastor bluffs in the flattest tone imaginable – so flat, in fact, that they could measure rulers by it.

“Ohh,” Lucifer turns around, neck extended to the side as he rubs his shoulders. “A spot of blackmail first thing in the morning! You say the sweetest things, my deer.”

Alastor can’t tell what that little endearment at the end was supposed to convey, but it sounded distinctly like a dig at his expense. He makes a displeased noise in his throat and melts away into his shadow, not dignifying Lucifer’s little jibe with a response. Alastor doesn’t even know why he’s humoring him at this point.

He falls in a cascade of shadows until he materializes in the Hotel kitchen.

Time to brew his morning coffee and raid the fridge for the fussy guest currently occupying his room.

He is going to strangle Lucifer one of these days.

Chapter Text

Alastor putters around the kitchen, humming along to a tune only in his mind, as he freshly grinds the roasted coffee beans in a manual grinder, cranking the handle vigorously. The water in the pot boils away, steam rising into the air. Alastor tries hard not to think about a different kind of steam he’d been subjected to, not ten minutes prior.

The bowl of strawberries rests upon the counter, covered by a napkin. It wouldn’t do to have his dietary choices examined too closely (or at all, actually), since he’s last had strawberries back when he was alive. He feels distinctly ridiculous for a moment, upon realization that he’s essentially roped himself into bringing breakfast in bed to the ever-reluctant ruler of Hell.

Well, breakfast to bath, actually, but that was another kettle of hell-fish.

He supposes he should be grateful he’s not actually cooking for the man. Maman certainly taught him how, and well. He can still taste the kick in her spice blends, even after all this time apart. Alastor’s brain supplies, extremely unhelpfully, that his father HATED seeing him in the kitchen. Alastor could never fathom why. The ability to feed oneself was essential to one’s survival, and that went from hunting, to butchering, to food preparation. Alastor must admit he’s grown quite spoiled in Hell, what with all the excellent butcheries around, but cooking remains a pleasant hobby (when he bothers with it, of course).

Coffee fully ground, he spoons it carefully into boiling water, doubling the dose he usually makes. Once he’s stirred it in, he reaches for his personal stash of roasted chicory root powder and adds a healthy amount.

Ah, maman. So frugal. Alastor wonders whether she’d be disappointed that he’s turned into a bit of a spendthrift when it comes to food?

He stirs the coffee and turns off the heat.

“Ohhh, something smells nice!” A voice drifts in from the doorway and Alastor freezes momentarily, his hand extended towards one of the non-descript mugs in the kitchen cabinet.

Charlie flounces towards him, immaculately dressed for the day, eyes shining brightly with alertness and unbridled enthusiasm. Alastor pivots and grabs his own mug from the cabinet.

“Good morning, my dear!” Alastor imbues his voice with as much false cheer as he can muster. “Bright and early, are you?”

She giggles happily and comes to a stop nearby, peering curiously at the slowly cooling coffee.

“Yep! Having breakfast with dad later and I couldn’t really sleep.”

Alastor finds it curious how anyone could be that excited for an early meal with their father, but doesn’t dwell on the point. Why couldn’t she have barged into the kitchen five minutes later?

“Ah,” Alastor murmurs inanely. “How lovely.”

I guess we’ll both be having breakfast with Lucifer this morning, Alastor’s brain supplies, unbidden.

“You made more this morning! You usually only make enough for yourself,” Charlie notes, too perceptively for Alastor’s comfort.

“Yes, indeedy,” Alastor pipes up as he pours the hot coffee into his trusty mug. “This seems to be a two cups kind of morning.”

Why the fuck did he say that? Two cups for himself – yes – not for someone else. Definitely not for Lucifer, not even a little bit.

Scrambling for a save, he offers her a most blinding smile. “On second glance, it does seem I’ve made too much…would you perhaps like some?”

Charlie’s eyes turn all starry. “Can I really? Oh, I’d love to try it!”

Mournfully, Alastor takes one of the non-descript hotel mugs and pours the rest of his delicious coffee into it. As the last drops slide down, he knows he’s messed up. Now he only has one mug of coffee, and he’s promised it to Lucifer. Damn Charlie and her early-bird tendencies.

“There you go, darling!” He hands her the mug, which she accepts as gratefully as if it were the Holy Grail. After a look of pure adoration and almost nauseating gratitude, she cradles the cup to her chin like a kitten. “Thanks, Alastor!”

“Don’t mention it,” Alastor waves his hand dismissively and stores the chicory powder and the rest of his coffee beans into an old biscuit tin in the cupboard. Everyone knows not to touch it, naturally. (Under penalty of being made into an impromptu snack.)

“So, what are your plans for the morning, Al?”

Going back to my rooms and making sure your father hasn’t keeled over, his mind supplies like an overly catty sports commentator.

“Oh, you know, the same old, same old,” he says placidly. “A spot of coffee, reading the morning edition, checking with Niffty whether the Hotel needs anything…” That said, he floats the dirty pot into the sink. Someone else will wash it for him.

“You’re so hard-working, Alastor.” Charlie says dreamily, lost in the smell of coffee vapors. “I’m so glad to have you on my team.”

“Anytime!” Alastor smiles and picks up his mug and the bowl of covered strawberries. “Enjoy your coffee, dearie! Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“See you later, Al!” She beams at him. “And thanks again!”

Alastor inclines his head and beats a hasty retreat, making for the elevators. The only trouble with coffee is that transmutating with it in hand tends to ruin the taste upon re-materialization. Which means he’s doomed to travel with his spoils on foot, all the way to the top.

He’s lucky, at least, that most occupied rooms aren’t on the higher floors and as such, fewer denizens need to share the elevators with him as he makes his way up.

When the 13^th floor dings, he steps out and hurries down the corridor. By his calculations, he has just over half an hour to hustle Lucifer out of his rooms, and they’re cutting it awfully close – too close, especially after Alastor managed to bump into Charlie in the kitchen. They have to be smarter about this in the future. Ideally, there should be no more sleepovers to begin with – Alastor shudders – once was more than enough.

One of his tendrils slithers into the keyhole to unlock the door, and he lets himself in, pushing the door closed with his hip, as silent as a whisper. The noise of the shower is gone, and so is the sound of drizzling rain from beyond his windows. As he steps further into his rooms, he hears a subtle humming noise, Lucifer standing near his fireplace, back turned to Alastor.

Alastor’s brain flash-freezes in his skull.

It’s Scheherazade. The fucker is humming the melody from the 4^th movement, using one of Alastor’s towels to dry his hair, and… and…

Alastor stares, rooted to the spot at the sight of Lucifer, barefoot in his rooms, wearing nothing but Alastor’s housecoat, which is so large on him that it’s hanging off of his left shoulder, sleeve caught on his elbow which prevents its further descent. Lucifer has belted it, but it’s so long on him that it almost looks like a dress.

Alastor clears his throat.

Lucifer yelps in fright and turns like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Boo,” Alastor says blithely.

Lucifer snarls at him. “You almost gave me a heart attack! When the fuck did you even get back?”

“Just now,” Alastor says, frowning deeply at the sight of Lucifer wearing something of his, the left side of his chest entirely exposed to his gaze. It doesn’t fit him at all, what with being about seven sizes too big, but Alastor still can’t tear his eyes away. The crimson velvet suits Lucifer’s pale complexion better than Alastor would have thought.

 “If you’re angry I found this thing lying around–” Lucifer looks at him, irate, spewing some words of rancor that barely even register in Alastor’s mind. The diatribe lasts no longer than ten seconds, but the moment he looks up, his brain is kicked back into gear. “– you know what, fine, I’ll just be naked then!” Lucifer says angrily and starts to pull one of his arms out of the sleeves, when he finally notices Alastor’s frozen, wide-eyed expression and halts in his tracks. A frown of scrutiny morphs into a broad smirk on his pale face, the towel hanging abandoned around his shoulders and obscuring the bared one from Alastor’s view. 

“Oh…now that’s interesting.” Lucifer murmurs slyly, eyes devilish, and hair lying damp in perfectly disheveled golden strands, framing his forehead around his usually less pronounced widow’s peak. With a grin, Lucifer pulls at the towel and drapes it carelessly over one of Alastor’s armchairs.

“What is?” Alastor tries to play it off like he hasn’t just been caught staring in a most appreciative manner. What he doesn’t appreciate, however, is a damp towel languishing against his upholstery.

“You’re not mad,” Lucifer says playfully and brings his bared shoulder forward coquettishly. “You think I look se–xyyyyy…”

Alastor recoils from second-hand embarrassment at having Lucifer sing-song something so ridiculous.

“Do you like the way I look in your clothes?” Lucifer sashays towards him; face alight with mischief and seductive delight. Lucifer stops in front of him and allows the overly loose garment to fall down both his shoulders, revealing the very beginning of the gradient at his upper arms. It has no right to be appealing, yet it is – Alastor doesn’t know whether that’s just the gleam in Lucifer’s eyes, so vibrantly alive, or the vaguely submissive pose he’s contorted himself into, but the effect is undeniable.

Alastor wants to deck him.

“Take the fucking coffee and stop playing ingénue.” Alastor spits venom and hands Lucifer his mug.

Lucifer’s eyes seem to focus on the mug for the first time and he looks puzzled. “Uhh, isn’t this your mug?”

“Were you expecting me to bring yours up too?” Alastor asks, deeply unimpressed by Lucifer’s reasoning skills this morning. “I was waylaid by your daughter in the kitchen and couldn’t risk taking both with me. Not without inviting pointed questions.”

Lucifer takes the effort to pull up at least one of the sides of the robe, covering his right shoulder once more, but doesn’t bother with the left side before taking the proffered mug.

“Aw, sorry. Did you at least drink some before getting interrupted?” Lucifer asks as he brings the mug closer to his mouth to savor the aroma, mercifully without any outpourings of nauseating gratitude.

“Didn’t have the chance.” Alastor says with much rancor. “Gave her the rest as a distraction.”

Lucifer makes a commiserating noise and takes a careful sip. “Mmm! This is good!” Lucifer says in delight. “What did you put in there?”

Alastor says without missing a beat: “Family secret, I’m afraid.”

“Aw you could tell me but then you’d have to kill me?” Lucifer says flirtatiously and hides his smile behind the rim of Alastor’s favorite mug. It’s so odd to see someone else’s lips touching it.

Alastor’s stomach plummets, all yearnings for coffee vanishing from his head.

“Are you aware of just how often you say vaguely suicidal things?”

Lucifer merely shrugs and seats himself in Alastor’s usual armchair. He should really say something about it, but he’s too tired to chastise Lucifer at the moment. It’s only then that it hits him that the ugly golden stain that used to be there has been vanished from the upholstery. Then he casts his gaze upon the rug and finds it pristine, almost steamed-looking. Near death, and the man found the power necessary to get rid of evidence.

And NOT had the power to dry himself off without resorting to fucking towels.

Alastor drops into the opposite armchair and places the bowl of strawberries on the coffee table, removing the napkin from it and tossing it into Lucifer’s lap (legs crossed, left thigh exposed).

“There. I’ve performed my duty.”

Lucifer grins, still cradling his mug in both hands. “Bringing your lover a post-coital snack is considered duty now? My my…”

The delivery is teasing, but Alastor feels a barb of some kind hidden in the words.

“We’re lovers now?” Alastor tilts his head, firing back.

“Ordinarily, I’d say we hate-fuck–” Lucifer says airily, “–either that, or we’re enemies with benefits? But I’m pretty sure you’d call that undignified.”

Alastor pulls a face of disgust.

“See?” Lucifer laughs. “Told you.”

“Eat the damned things before I throw them out into the swamp.” Alastor bristles.

Lucifer takes a long, luxurious swallow of Alastor’s coffee and he wonders, distantly, what his maman would say to him entertaining a man in his parlor at half past eight in the morning, bedecked in nothing but his house coat. The twenties were a free-spirited time for sure, but that didn’t mean you could bring a man over for tea.

Good thing she wasn’t here to sully her eyes on Lucifer lounging about as shamelessly as some kind of Jezebel.

“Strawberries?” Lucifer asks, his tone implying nothing at all pure. “Should I be reading into your choice to bring me this?”

“There were tangerines, pomegranates, and these. I chose something easy to eat, as per your instructions.” Alastor points out flatly. “And besides, even I’m not stupid enough to bring you a banana.”

Lucifer bursts out into laughter; high and tinkling like jingle bells.

“Aww, I almost got my hopes up.” Lucifer teases, fingers playing with the rim of Alastor’s mug. “I thought you might feed them to me, you know…”

“Why would you assume such a thing?” Alastor asks blandly. Besides, feed them how?

“You’re right,” Lucifers sighs and melts deeper into his armchair. “I forgot I was dealing with a complete novice.”

“Why the sudden disappointment?” Alastor asks, genuinely puzzled. “You are aware I’m not the romantic sort.”

Lucifer pouts and reaches for a strawberry, popping it into his mouth and chewing like a child who’s been denied a treat. Alastor looks at him and wonders, what would maman tell him for looking at the literal Devil, the original temptation, and finding him beautiful? Alastor always thought he simply never found the right woman to bring home; after all, with his mixed heritage… Naturally, there were women who found him attractive. Even a few men, if truth be told. He simply never felt a stirring of any kind with any of them. While he was still above ground, he’d presumed that was simply because the right person never came along. He didn’t think himself especially picky either, as he never considered anything particularly ugly on a person, not the things others disliked anyhow, like crooked teeth, or protruding ears, or a limp. Alastor didn’t care about any of it.

Of course, looking at Lucifer, it was exceedingly hard to find any human fault with him – his features were symmetrical, pleasing, and perfectly proportionate despite his small and unassuming stature. Any faults he had lay in his broken approach to life and weak mentality – much bigger faults in a person than any slight physical defect could be.

And yet…

There’s strength there too – a twisted sort of resilience, despite Lucifer’s flip-flopping on the concept of remaining alive.

How burdensome would it be to live forever and have nothing go your way?

Alastor frowns. Live forever, so powerful, and still do nothing to remedy the problems around you…no, Alastor cannot reconcile that. It’s an offense he cannot forgive, or excuse.

“You could pretend,” Lucifer says mildly, sucking the juice out of his third strawberry. “It would be more fun that way.”

“Fun for whom?” Alastor raises an eyebrow.

Lucifer shrugs, Alastor’s robe falling down his shoulders once more. They have maybe fifteen minutes before Lucifer has to be on his way down to the lobby.

“Forget I said anything,” Lucifer says dismissively and takes another sip of his coffee, closing his eyes for the moment as he relaxes in the chair.

It takes Alastor some time to parse Lucifer’s statement it its entirety. He wishes to be, what… lied to? Pretend-romanced? Seduced?

Why?

What would be the point of such a thing, when they both know it’s a lie? Was Lucifer truly driven so mad with loneliness that such games would entertain him? Alastor could maybe understand the cravings of the flesh, a physical sort of hunger that needed satisfying, but romance had never been on offer.

“I should get dressed,” Lucifer murmurs, voice suddenly tired and subdued. He leaves the mug on the coffee table and pops another strawberry into his mouth, then attempts to stand up, but Alastor’s shadow pops in behind Lucifer and grabs him by the shoulders, dropping his behind back into the chair.

Lucifer gives him a scandalized look.

“That bowl is only half-empty. You’re not going anywhere until you finish it.”

“I have, what, ten minutes to get dressed and go?” Lucifer points out, annoyed, wiping his fingers with the napkin. “What are you playing at – do you want me to be late?”

“Technically twelve.” Alastor points out. “And arguing with me is a waste of time. Now eat the damned things as I dry your hair.”

Lucifer flushes, clearly having forgotten that his hair is still damp and looking not at all presentable in his current state. How he thinks he can meet Charlie like this is beyond Alastor. Oddly obedient, Lucifer grabs another strawberry and bites into it. The hands of Alastor’s shadow reach into Lucifer’s hair and card through it, leeching out the water with each pass and smoothing Lucifer’s hair back into the semblance of his usual hairstyle. It feels strange to watch his shadow performing an action as he watches, completely detached from it.

Lucifer swallows; eyes half-lidded. He leans into the touch of his shadow, like he would crave affection from the hands of an executioner. Alastor’s stomach overturns.

He gets up from the chair and walks to his wardrobe, opens it swiftly and grabs the hanger with Lucifer’s outfit and his boots. He casts a baleful look towards the hat like it’s caused him personal offense – which it very much has. He ignores it for now (would burn it if he could) and stalks back to Lucifer, who’s sitting in his chair, flushed, face hidden behind black hands as his shadow caresses his nearly fully dried hair. Alastor banishes his shadow and Lucifer makes a whiny sound of protest.

“Get up so you can get dressed.” Alastor instructs, placing the boots on the floor. Lucifer looks up at him, skin visibly radiating heat. He looks annoyed and embarrassed, all at once. “Why did you stop?” Lucifer asks petulantly.

“Because we have 9 minutes left and your hair is dry?” Alastor points out, no longer in the mood for Lucifer’s nonsense.

“Is it?” Lucifer squeaks and Alastor leans down to push his gloved fingers through the strands, Lucifer sitting so much below him that he’s forced to crane his neck up. Alastor regrets wearing gloves for the first time in forever, as that means he cannot properly enjoy the sensation of Lucifer’s silky hair against his fingertips. A visual inspection confirms it’s dry, so that’s something.

“Mhm,” Alastor confirms. “Dry as a bone.”

Lucifer is looking up at him, throat swallowing around nothing, and Alastor looks down at the beautiful slope of his shoulders and the clear line of his clavicles and has to fight an impulse to reach out and touch.

“Get dressed or I’ll do it for you.” Alastor reiterates.

Lucifer bites his lip and undoes his sash.

Alastor’s sash.

The endless expanse of alabaster skin is revealed, drowned in the sea of Alastor’s crimson robe and he knows that Lucifer should never wear any other color for as long as he lives. Only the crimson of mortal blood, enveloping him like a royal mantle.

The King of all sinners – staring up at him like he wants to be delivered.

Like the only thing he craves is worship.

Alastor feels a stirring in his core, molten and languid like magma breaking crust between tectonic plates. Immediately unnerved by the sensation, he steps away, increasing the distance between them once more. His abrupt departure seems to knock some sense into Lucifer, who rises with a shuddering exhale and abandons the robe on the armchair like a shed skin.

For all intents and purposes, Alastor turns into a coat hanger, holding Lucifer’s outfit aloft while he stares assiduously down at the floor. He dares not think about Lucifer fully bared to his gaze. It reminds him of last night, of a waterfall of golden blood, and of this morning, in the shower, just standing under the spray and bantering like he hadn’t almost been killed by Alastor less than nine hours prior.

Lucifer rummages before him, pulling something out of the white trouser pocket and Alastor realizes with a shock that it’s underwear. The heathen stuffed his own underwear in a trouser pocket and left it in Alastor’s closet. Mortifyingly, Alastor feels heat suffusing the skin of his face. Lucifer shuffles in front of him and Alastor closes his eyes tightly. He doesn’t want to see that pink striped fabric climbing up Lucifer’s ankles. He doesn’t want to watch any of it.

The hanger gets lighter and lighter in his grasp, and Alastor tries not to listen either, but is cursed by his acute hearing and can distinguish every single rustle of clothing as it caresses Lucifer’s skin on its way up. He doesn’t know which is worse, to look at it and suffer the sight of it, or to listen and have his mind fill out the gaps instead. He hears the buttons passing through their respective holes, the crisp pull of sleeves, the subtlest clink of the thin chain adorning Lucifer’s waistcoat.

It makes him shiver – so illicit, so… untouchable somehow.

The hanger disappears from his grasp, dissolved into nothingness. His fingers clench around nothing and he awkwardly lowers his hand by his side.

“You can look now,” Lucifer says with soft amusement.

“I’d rather not.” Alastor retorts, voice uncomfortably strained.

“Only three minutes left,” Lucifer murmurs. “If you want to say your goodbyes?”

“What for?” Alastor asks, knowing full well Lucifer still has to put his boots on.

The leather creaks, the air before him displaced, intermittently warm and cold as Lucifer shifts in front of him. Alastor waits with bated breath, willing Lucifer to leave his rooms as soon as possible. He feels raw and disjointed, and cannot find the cause beyond the physical discomfort he’s currently experiencing.

Lucifer moves two steps to his left and Alastor can hear the last of his coffee being drained away.

Not even a sip left.

What a waste of effort.

He hears a rustle of wings and feels the updraft created by the flurry of movement right in front of him. Unwittingly, his eyes open and he can see Lucifer hovering just slightly above him, in a way that forces Alastor to look up.

Fully dressed, but still without his hat, Lucifer smiles down like a benevolent guardian angel and cups Alastor’s cheek. It’s impossible to look away from the majestic crimson and white plumage, flexing and moving, holding Lucifer aloft. Alastor feels the touch of Lucifer’s thumb brushing his lips and he shivers, the seam of his lips parting as if on some primitive instinct. Wide-eyed and uncomprehending, he stares forward, entirely frozen as Lucifer leans in and seals his mouth in a kiss. He fears an intrusion but it never comes, warm and delicious liquid spilling into his mouth instead – for a terrifying second, he fears it’s Lucifer’s golden blood, but the moment it hits his tongue, the taste that blooms is bitter and rich.

It’s only coffee.

Alastor’s eyes flutter closed and he swallows reflexively, so used to welcoming that particular liquid into his body that his instincts override the unorthodox method of delivery. He swallows once, twice – warmth flooding his mouth like a benediction – and feels Lucifer’s cool lips pressing against his with a brief burst of sound for another moment before retreating. Alastor swallows the last, insufficient mouthful – mixed faintly with Lucifer’s saliva – and a quiet noise dies in his throat.

Lucifer smiles down at him with a complicated look in his eyes.

“I would feel bad if you didn’t get to taste the fruits of your labor before I left…” Lucifer says wryly and then has the audacity to wink at him.

In a flurry of red and white plumage, Lucifer flies to his door and opens it wide, throwing one last glance at Alastor.

“Catch you later!” Lucifer grins – and like a shot he’s out of the door – and gone from sight.

Stunned, Alastor stands there frozen, eyes landing squarely on something blindingly white in his field of vision – Lucifer’s awful, ridiculous hat – still in its place in his wardrobe.

In protest, his shadow slams the door of his room shut.

A moment later, the hat winks out of existence, like a mirage.

Angrily, Alastor stalks to his wardrobe and pulls it closed with a violent yank.

The taste of coffee lingers on his tongue like a curse.

Chapter Text

Alastor goes about his day, checking up on the Hotel’s affairs, asking Niffty whether she requires more cleaning supplies (bleach – she always seems to want more of it), and doing a spot of intimidation on a pair of unruly guests who decided a scuffle was in order to settle their petty disputes outside of Charlie’s mandated sessions. Alastor leaves them suitably cowed and fleeing with their tails between their legs. It does wonders for his soured mood, which leads to him taking a much deserved break from the responsibilities of managing the bare minimum required of him and going out for a spot of lunch.

With his belly full at last, he takes a stroll down the streets of Pentagram City, enjoying the occasional turf battle he comes across. The city has lost some of its flair with Sir Pentious’ untimely demise, demons opting to duke it out in the open with angelic weapons drawn. Alastor sighs internally. Those things should be pointed at the Heavens, not at other wretches wriggling in the dirt, fighting over scraps.

Alastor’s mind returns, annoyingly, to the events of this morning. Lucifer’s little stunt with coffee, the pretense of doing a considerate thing for Alastor by sharing it… Oh, what a calculated power move that was. He’d been too flustered in the moment, discomfited by all the thoughts of involuntary angel-slaughter, as well as Lucifer’s absolute shamelessness, to properly calculate the sheer manipulation of it. For Lucifer to position himself over Alastor, to kiss him – when he could have easily handed him the cup instead.

No, he went for full psychological attack with that one.

Alastor is livid every time he recalls it.

And then, to add insult to injury, were the other little surprises Lucifer had left for him – a single strawberry on the bottom of the bowl, ripe and red, like the perfect mockery of a payment for the touch he stole (Alastor chucked it into the swamp with disgust).

Alastor’s robe, left draped like a vacated husk over his armchair, which still managed to smell vaguely of Lucifer an hour after he’d left, and the worst offender of all, the absolute shock he received when he stepped back into the bathroom – his mirror – fixed up and hanging on his wall like the events of last night were nothing more than a vivid nightmare.

Lucifer noticed.

He noticed the smashed mirror and chose to repair it – chose to point it out, very plainly, that he knew Alastor had lost all self-control the previous night. Alastor loathes the reminder. It burrows under his skin like a fishhook, yanking unexpectedly at the least opportune moments. It feels as if he’s lost something important – misplaced an irreplaceable family heirloom – traded in a part of his soul he can never get back.

Just how many more weaknesses will he be forced to reveal while dealing with Lucifer?

An entire year of questions – three truths a day – will there be anything left of him by the end?

Maybe if he successfully distracts Lucifer, he will content himself with paltry things that are of no consequence, such as asking for various permissions instead of digging for information.

So when he makes his late afternoon rounds, simply to keep an eye on things (and remind the denizens who actually runs the place and enforces its rules), he runs into the person he least wanted to see – Lucifer himself. In the middle of the corridor, no less, so he cannot avoid him (or the daughter walking next to him). Typically for the Morningstars, they are taking up all the fucking space available – Alastor can’t squeeze past them without stopping to acknowledge them first.

“Sweetie, that’s a great idea!” Lucifer gushes, to Charlie’s embarrassment and delight.

“You really think so, dad?”

“Of course! Who wouldn’t love a good talent show?”

Alastor’s eye twitches in annoyance. What fresh Hell is this now?

“Oh, I’m so excited!” Charlie squeals and jumps up, throwing herself into Lucifer’s arms, who holds her up with a whoop of delight, twirling her around to a round of high-pitched giggles.

Alastor wonders when they’ll notice his approach, as he’s stopped in the middle of the corridor, seriously considering melting away into the nearest shadow.

Naturally, it is in that moment that Lucifer’s eyes land upon him, a gleam of acknowledgment piercing through Alastor from ten feet away. He feels that prickling pull of the fishhook once more, yanking at him mercilessly.

“Greetings!” Alastor segues easily. “What are these new plans I happened to overhear by chance?”

Lucifer puts Charlie down, and she’s still smiling ear to ear as she finally realizes he’s there. “Oh, Alastor! So nice to run into you again – the coffee was absolutely delicious – thank you!”

“What coffee, sweetie?” Lucifer plays dumb and it’s ridiculously convincing, even to Alastor who knows for a fact that Lucifer knows the taste of it most intimately by now.

“Ha ha, I forgot to tell you – Alastor accidentally made too much this morning and gave me some to try. I never knew that adding chicory root could make it taste so nice!”

Alastor’s smile turns into a feral grimace. Lucifer, the absolute, dreadful, annoying little menace that he is, is trying very hard to suppress a smirk – and failing.

“Chicory root, huh?” Lucifer grins, catching Alastor’s eye for a brief moment. “Must be a secret family recipe.”

Alastor wants to reach out and strangle him with his bare hands.

“It’s great, dad! You have to try it!”

Lucifer’s smile is so smug that its radiance could power an entire city block for a week.

“Maybe I will? If Alastor wouldn’t mind?”

“I would.” Alastor says with undisguised antipathy. “Mind, that is.”

Lucifer laughs, clearly aware that he’s managed to strike a nerve.

“Aw, Alastor, I’m sorry,” Charlie apologizes effusively. “Obviously, you don’t have to! It would just be such a shame not to share something so lovely…”

Alastor deflects her low grade attempt at emotional manipulation with: “No matter, now if you’ll excuse me…”

He’s attempting to walk past them when Lucifer says in a casual tone: “Alastor, would you mind finding me later when you have the time? I would like to keep you in the loop about Charlie’s plans for this event – I’m sure things would go much more smoothly if we cooperated on this.”

“That’s a great idea, dad!” Charlie all but squeaks, like one of those newfangled toys Hellhounds enjoy playing with.

Alastor schools his expression into something vaguely amiable and only half-turns towards them.

“I shall make sure to do so.” With the tiniest incline of his head, he hurries down the corridor, trying to keep himself together.

Lucifer...

Alastor’s heart hammers in his chest like he’s just survived a potentially deadly encounter. His legs carry him swiftly away from the source of the danger, behind a corner and out of sight, at which point he dissolves into shadows and flees, retreating back to his quarters.

It’s past eleven in the evening and Alastor is running out of excuses to not seek Lucifer out.

He’d hoped that having a few hours to himself would have calmed him down, allowed his anger to abate, but if anything, the ugly sensation has only managed to grow in the interim. One look at his parlor – at his bed – at his bathroom mirror – at the swamp where he’s chucked the remains of Lucifer’s morning snack – and his discomfort keeps mounting.

And to top it all off, he’s been summoned. Lucifer’s little message had come across loud and clear. Couldn’t he have waited at least another day, given Alastor some time to reach a state of equilibrium before pulling on his chain once more? Would that have been too much to ask?

Or did Lucifer simply want his new three questions worth? It would have to wait until midnight, but Alastor has no doubt that Lucifer can keep him in his rooms as long as he wants, should he choose to.

So here he is, ten minutes past eleven at night, standing in front of Lucifer’s rooms, knocking on his door with poorly contained rage, tension coiling underneath his stitches, ready to burst forth.

The doors open, revealing Lucifer who seems tired but in a relatively mellow mood.

“Ah, good, you understood me,” Lucifer says softly, moving aside to let Alastor pass. “I was beginning to fear you wouldn’t come.”

“You called, my Lord?” Alastor says as sarcastically as he can muster. “What am I to help you with? Want me to jump through a few fire hoops for your entertainment, this fine evening?”

“Wh–what are you on about?” Lucifer asks, entirely confused by the exchange. “Is this about earlier?”

“I don’t know, is it?” Alastor snaps at him.

“I just needed an excuse to see you?” Lucifer states with a puzzled little frown.

“Did you, now?” Alastor stalks into Lucifer’s rooms and his shadow locks the door behind him. He doesn’t believe a single word.

“Wait a moment,” Lucifer shakes his head. “There seems to be some kind of misunderstanding here… What did you think I meant?”

Alastor stops. “So it wasn’t an intentional slight?”

“Why would it be?” Lucifer asks, bewildered. “We weren’t alone, it’s not like I could have told you to just come over.”

Alastor blinks a few times, trying to calm his breathing.

“Right.”

“Are you…angry with me?” Lucifer asks, finally realizing just how fuming Alastor is and has been since earlier. “Why?”

“Why?”

Lucifer’s concern melts away into annoyance. “Oh, are we doing the angry spouse thing now? ‘You know what you did!’ blah blah blah–”

“I’m not angry.” Alastor says emphatically, because it’s true. He’s not angry, he is absolutely LIVID.

“Because I’ve been married for eons and I know what anger looks like.” Lucifer points out, entirely non-plussed.

“Are we spouses now? Funny, I don’t seem to remember making any vows.” Alastor fires back mercilessly.

Lucifer goes red. “You know what I mean, asshole! Why are you antagonizing me on purpose?”

“I will stop when you do.” Alastor growls. “These little emotional manipulations of yours are getting bothersome.”

“Oh, MY emotional manipulations??” Lucifer cries out, outraged. “I don’t get off on mind games, Alastor, that’s YOUR department!”

Alastor straight up snarls, horns exploding out of his head, eyes turning to dials as the static crackles with warning.

“And what was yesterday, then?!”

Lucifer blinks. “What do you mean?”

Alastor bites his tongue not to say: ‘You know exactly what I mean’, and opts to loom accusingly over Lucifer instead. “Your little suicide stunt? Or are you trying to tell me that was not manipulation?”

Called out so blatantly for his actions, Lucifer gapes for a moment. “Ah… I suppose that’s fair.”

The moment Lucifer deflates, Alastor finds his own rage dwindling.

“Yeah, you’re right. That…that wasn’t fair. In my defense, I had no idea it would upset you. If anything, I thought you’d be delighted.”

And he’s right. Alastor DID think he’d be delighted to have Lucifer offering him all his blood and his life on a silver platter, but when the moment came – his hand faltered.

“I’m sorry, Alastor.” Lucifer says sincerely, shrinking into himself, visibly tired and wan. “I…I put your room to rights as best I could.”

“You think I was upset about the fucking ROOM?”

“I don’t know what you’re upset about!” Lucifer cries out, frustrated and miserable, walking to his bed to sit down gracelessly and bury his face in his hands.

Alastor remains rooted to the spot, breathing heavily as if he’s just been running from the authorities across half the damned Bayou. His horns retreat halfway and get stuck that way, his agitation too much to allow for them to completely melt away. Lucifer is sitting on the bed, hunched and small.

Alastor feels a tear through his ribcage, worse than the wound Adam gave him. For a split second, he sees his maman, exhausted from having to deal with his father’s unpredictable moods. How often has Alastor seen the like? A hundred times? A thousand?

Lucifer has tried to calm him down ever since he came in. Attempted to reason, perhaps even to joke, in his own tired and exasperated way, tried to mitigate Alastor explosive mood and…

And got more anger in return. Received threats, and vitriol and–

Alastor clamps a hand over his face in an attempt to remain quiet. Bile rises in his throat and he swallows it down, throat seizing painfully as his eyes begin to prickle.

Has he finally come full circle and turned into his father?

He wants to run from the room and scream into the nearest void. Either that or run to Lucifer’s bathroom and empty the contents of his stomach once more, violently and with explosive expediency. The urge to purge himself of the accumulated weight of his sin is unbearable.

Since when? Wince when has he been like this?

A decade?

A century?

Since he was alive, towards the end?

His claws dig into the sparse flesh of his gaunt cheeks as he trembles in the middle of the room, unseen.

“I mean…are you angry about the way I left?” Lucifer asks, soft as a whisper.

Still trying to appease Alastor, like he’s an abuser, returned home from work to find dinner colder than he liked.

“No.” Alastor says quietly, voice unsteady.

Yes, of course he was angry about it, but he wouldn’t give Lucifer the satisfaction of knowing that it got to him. That being fed coffee through a kiss left any kind of mark on him at all.

“Then… are you mad about the family recipe thing? Cause…yeah, I probably shouldn’t have done that. It just…felt kind of…nice? Like a little inside joke? Haven’t had anyone to share that with in an age and a half…” Lucifer says with so much self-deprecation that Alastor has to turn his head away; curtain his face off from Lucifer’s mild gaze.

He cannot take it.

His breath hitches, and he clamps both hands over his mouth – whether to prevent his dinner coming up, or his cries, he doesn’t know. Perhaps both.

For an agonizingly eternal moment, his entire being floods with unrelenting shame. It courses through his veins in intermittent scalding and freezing pulses, and he feels like a brittle statue left crumbling in an ancient ruin, about to be felled by a single strike of a plunderer’s pickaxe.

“Alastor?” Lucifer asks, impossibly gently, like he’s afraid Alastor will lash out and hurt him – strike him with the back of his hand – whip out his belt–

He spasms, hunching in on himself.

The bed creaks somewhere behind his closed eyelids.

“What’s wrong?” Lucifer inquires gently – tentatively – and Alastor swallows a whimper at the careful touch of hands connecting with his upper arms. “You don’t have to hold it in, you know?”

Oh, but he does. He has to. He’s always had to.

There was never any alternative.

To not do so invited punishment, ridicule, and humiliation.

“I’m sorry,” Lucifer says softly, just like his maman, apologizing for something that has never, ever been her fault. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice I hurt you.”

Alastor’s eyes snap open, vision blurry as if he’s stuck underwater. Hurt him?

His hands shake the same way they had when he first killed someone who didn’t meet his code.

Fucked be the owner of his soul, the liar, the deceiver–

Alastor clutches at Lucifer’s shoulders like a man drowning, fingers clenching and unclenching like hands slipping over a log drifting down a strong river current.

“You, hurt me?” Alastor mutters, Lucifer’s concerned, compassionate expression an indistinct blur below him. “After I almost killed you earlier today? Absurd.”

The concept is so backward and twisted that Alastor wants to scream.

“This… almost sounds like you’re… remorseful?”

The word pierces his skull like a bullet from that fucking rifle that cut his mortal existence short. The tears that run down his face burn like acid rain, like that storm in the night, trailing down the windowpanes as Lucifer slumbered in his bed, more dead than alive.

Is he?

Is he remorseful?

Alastor would rather cut off both of his hands than kill Lucifer.

Hurt him? Perhaps. Choke him? Absolutely.

Kill him?

Cause permanent damage?

Never.

“You almost made me break my code,” Alastor utters, breathless and wrecked.

“You have a code?” Lucifer asks, genuinely surprised.

“You’re not a murderer. Or a rapist. Or a pedophile.” Alastor clarifies. “I don’t kill the innocent.”

Lucifer chuckles for a second, and then starts laughing outright – hysterically – hilariously. It’s jarring enough that Alastor’s eyes clear for a moment.

“Innocent? Me?” Lucifer’s head is thrown back, golden hair flying every which way as he laughs like madman. Or like a child. When he finally comes up for air, his eyes are almost unbearably kind in their utter disbelief. “I have not been called innocent since before my fall – I don’t even remember anymore!”

Alastor’s trembling hands crawl up as gently as he can make them, until they are cradling Lucifer’s head.

“You ended up in Hell because you fought for our freedom, as well as your own.”

“Pride goes before the Fall,” Lucifer says mildly, but Alastor can see the ancient wound etched into his face, bleeding out of every pore.

“Unlike the rest of us – you don’t belong here.” Alastor says firmly. “You never did.”

Lucifer gapes, grasping for words, but they elude him entirely. Instead, he reaches for Alastor cheek with his left hand and gently brushes his tears away – like he’s doing it to someone deserving, someone far better than Alastor ever was, even when he was pure and unspoiled.

“Apology accepted,” Lucifer says softly, looking up at him with far more tenderness and grace than Alastor knows what to do with.

“That wasn’t an apology ,” Alastor states bluntly. “It was an admission of guilt.”

Lucifer smiles, as warm as summer dawn over the Bayou.

“From you? It’s close enough.”

Absolution. From the very person whom he nearly killed.

Just another proof that Lucifer has been wrongfully imprisoned – and Hell was the worst punishment imaginable, not because he suffered eternally, but precisely because the people he freed did. And to think Alastor threw it in his face, like a complete monster.

“I won’t ask for forgiveness,” Alastor warns him, leaning closer.

“I didn’t think you would,” Lucifer says with a wry smile.

Suddenly tired, Alastor leans his forehead against Lucifer’s.

I don’t deserve it anyway, Alastor thinks.

“But you have it,” Lucifer murmurs. “Forgiveness. If you want it.”

Alastor buries his right hand in Lucifer’s hair and breathes out shakily. “I don’t.”

A lie – what’s another, in the grand scheme of things?

“Suit yourself,” Lucifer says mildly and touches Alastor’s hair gently.

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” Alastor confesses, like a sinner lying prostrate before the altar.

“You don’t have to.” Lucifer soothes him, fingers cool and pleasant against Alastor’s feverish skin.

If only that were true, Alastor thinks. How nice would that be?

“I don’t want to be angry anymore…” Alastor admits, weary from the painful contortion he’s put his soul into.

“It’s alright,” Lucifer offers comfort and Alastor knows, in that moment, that he truly means it. That it’s freely given, with no ulterior motives, no games, no ploys. “You don’t have to pretend in front of me.”

“Pretend?” Alastor squeezes out, flagging in Lucifer’s hands.

Lucifer’s brief laugh feels like a vice around his heart. “We’re both broken here, you’ve nothing to prove to me.”

That would be a first.

Drawn by an impulse he barely understands, Alastor pulls Lucifer into an embrace, holding him tightly against his chest. Lucifer doesn’t fight it, doesn’t even utter a peep of complaint, embracing him as easily as breathing while Alastor is standing there, face buried in his hair and feeling like a well-shaken box of broken glass shards rattling in transit as the liquor inside sloshes around, dripping into the undercarriage of the car.

With a flurry of rustling noise, Lucifer’s beautiful wings unfurl and wrap around them both like a privacy screen, Alastor’s world suddenly narrowed to crimson and white feathers, and endlessly soft hair that smells faintly of sulfur and apple cider.

“No one can see or hear us. The room is tamper-proof with my strongest wards.”

“Since when?” Alastor asks, nose and lips buried in golden hair as soft as clouds.

“Since our first night together.” Lucifer murmurs against his chest, arms tightening around Alastor’s torso.

For me? He did it for me?

After I bloodied him?

After I took pleasure in hurting him?

Alastor starts crying once again, shaking and powerless to stop it. The humiliation and the shame burn on their way out, his tiny, aborted cries muffled in Lucifer’s hair.

“It’s alright,” Lucifer says softly as he strokes his back.

No, it’s not. It will never be right.

Because it’s too late, far too late now. If Alastor’s father deserved death, what does Alastor deserve then, if not something far, far worse?

“I know you said you didn’t want it…but I forgive you anyway.”

Alastor swallows a sob and accepts the grace he doesn’t deserve but has so generously been given.

Chapter Text

Alastor loses track of time completely, buried in Lucifer’s golden hair and enveloped in his beautiful crimson wings. It would seem there has been a truly staggering backlog of tears to shed, as it took him what seems like forever to stop, Lucifer not relinquishing the hold on him for a single moment.

When was the last time he was held like this? Back when he was ten, eleven maybe? Who held him last when he was falling apart, that he’d actually welcomed it?

Only his mother came to mind.

At some point, his breathing has managed to even out, and his sobs petered out into infrequent whimpers. All throughout, Lucifer remained a quiet support, hands smoothing down Alastor’s back in a way that felt like comfort instead of grating on Alastor the way unsolicited touch usually did.

Alastor swallows and pulls slightly away, ready to pull himself together. His gloved hands abandon Lucifer’s silky hair with some reluctance. The second he lets go, Lucifer’s hands fall away as well.

Alastor feels the tug of a fishhook somewhere inside at that.

”Sorry, I didn’t…” Lucifer moves his hands away, self-consciously. “I just wanted to comfort you.”

Alastor looks down at him, unable to muster a single scrap of his usual defenses. “I didn’t mind,” spills from his lips like a dirty secret.

“Ah,” Lucifer averts his gaze, wings fluttering and falling away, folding up once more. “Good to know.”

Alastor’s fingers flex by his sides, still tingling with the touch that’s no longer there, despite his gloves. It feels like something has been imprinted across the receptors in his skin, an indelible brand that sends tingles skittering all the way up his spine to the base of his skull.

“Um, here you go.” Lucifer offers a tentative smile and hands him a warm, damp towel conjured out of nowhere. “So you can wipe your face.”

Alastor accepts the unexpected kindness without a word. It feels strange after all the comfort Lucifer provided, that he would balk at wiping Alastor’s face himself. Perhaps he felt he’d pushed Alastor’s currently nonexistent barriers too far for one night.

Alastor brings the warm cloth to his face and notes something odd. “This…doesn’t smell like sulfur.”

“Why would it?” Lucifer asks, visibly confused.

“All water in Hell smells like sulfur.” Alastor states with a frown.

Lucifer grins proudly. “Not the one I conjure.”

“You can conjure water?” Alastor inquires, finger clutching the towel tighter. “Pure water?”

“Of course!” Lucifer says easily. “How do you think I get my coffee to taste, well, right?”

“That’s why it was so good…” Alastor murmurs under his breath.

“Yeah…now you know – my family secret!” Lucifer chuckles, eyes apologetic and soft.

Alastor knows an olive branch when he sees one, and wonders why he saw none of the other ones Lucifer tried to extend him previously.

“I mean, if you wanted to make coffee with it…I could give you some?” Lucifer offers easily, like it’s nothing. “A liter or two, maybe? Would last you a week at least.”

Purified water.

In Hell – where everything was irrevocably tainted. Just another undeserved kindness Lucifer is so apt at producing and giving away for free. It doesn’t feel right.

“And what would you want in return?” Alastor asks, part of him hoping for an equitable exchange for once.

“Wh–what would I want–? Alastor!” Lucifer exclaims slightly perturbed. “It’s just a…paltry kindness. I don’t need anything in return – it costs me nothing.”

“Nothing you do…is paltry.” Alastor murmurs softly.

“Umm…okay.” Lucifer averts his eyes, visibly discomfited by the compliment. “Thank you?”

Alastor decides now would be a good time to wipe his face, as it would save him from making any further (unfortunate) commentary. The lightly steamed cloth feels incredibly soothing to his abused skin. It is a good thing his eyes are blood-red, as he would die of mortification at their blood-shot state were he still alive.

Lucifer steps away, leaving his personal space.

“So, ah… you don’t have to stay here, you know? You’re free to go to your quarters, get some rest. You don’t have to do anything – it would be cruel of me to expect you to entertain me in any fashion tonight.”

Alastor thinks about retreating to lick his wounds in private – it would be the dignified choice to make – the easy and logical choice, for sure. So why… Why does it fill him with dread instead?

To go back to his rooms and face what he’s done away from the proof that his misdeed has failed and that Lucifer is alive and well, if not entirely unharmed by his actions? To re-imagine the previous night, the maiming, the deluge of golden blood, the light as it leaves Lucifer’s eyes–

No.

His guts churn uncomfortably, like an overly shaken soda bottle about to be cracked open. 

“What if I don’t want to…leave…right now?”

His silent admission shocks Lucifer, who can only muster an inarticulate: “Um..” in response.

“What if I don’t want to go back to my quarters tonight?” Alastor reiterates, hoping Lucifer will understand what he’s trying to convey without him needing to spell it out in gruesomely graphic detail.

“Well, I could… ward a room for you on the 12^th floor?” Lucifer hedges. “I think the entire floor should be empty right now… You could sleep there? Or…somewhere else if you don’t want to be in your room.”

Alastor swallows thickly. He doesn’t want to say it. He would rather say nothing at all.

“Or if you wanted–” Lucifer says gently, “–you could…stay here?”

Alastor breathes a sigh of relief he wasn’t aware he’d been holding in.

 “We could just…sit down on the couch?” Lucifer goes on, careful and tentative as if speaking to a feral creature caught in a bear trap. “Listen to some music?”

Alastor casts his gaze to where Lucifer has pointed and notes there is indeed a new piece of furniture in the room, a dark red damask sofa facing the white marble fireplace he remembers so well…

“That couch is new.” Alastor remarks, grasping for something inane to say.

“Yeah, well, you kinda wrecked the last one.” Lucifer jokes.

“You didn’t fix it?” Alastor asks, curiosity sparked.

Lucifer looks at him with a lopsided smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I will find out as some point.” Alastor promises.

Lucifer grins in delight. “Why, would you like to wreck this one too?”

Alastor stops for a moment to savor the brief burst of joy blooming across Lucifer’s angelic features.

“Is that supposed to be innuendo?” Alastor asks with narrowed eyes.

“Perhaps,” Lucifer says coyly.

Alastor huffs out a laugh. “Maybe some other time.”

They are both too tired tonight.

“Ah ha,” Lucifer huffs, embarrassed. “I thought I could just play some music, something nice and relaxing. Maybe some Strauss? We don’t have to do anything…complicated.”

Alastor sighs. Nothing about this has ever been uncomplicated.

 “Come on, sit down. I’ll put a record on.” Lucifer goes to a small unassuming cabinet and when it opens, there’s a small gust of golden magic emanating from it.

“That wasn’t there before.” Alastor notes as he heads for the couch and sinks into the soft and springy upholstery.

“Ah, yeah,” Lucifer rubs the back of his neck. “I connected it to my collection in the palace.”

“You have a collection?”

“Oh yes,” Lucifer’s eyes sparkle from across the room. “Quite an extensive one. Let me see… Schubert…Schumann…Strauss! No, senior… ah, there we go! Strauss Junior! Good, hah…hmm..let’s go with this one…”

Lucifer puts a record on and goes to sit on the couch, keeping a respectable distance, half a couch away. Funny, considering they spent the better part of the past half an hour plastered against one another, Alastor’s tears soaking into Lucifer’s hair. Mercifully, Lucifer chose not to say anything about it.

The strings vibrate in the air, as insubstantial and ephemeral as the first sunrays peeking over the horizon. Timid flutes join in, floating over the melody like wispy clouds trailing across a clear sky. The horns and bassoons take over the serene melody which builds slowly and delicately, like a sleepy morning over a calm, undisturbed lake. For about a minute, he merely enjoys the subtlety of the orchestral arrangement, imagining a clear and pleasant vista stretching out before his eyes. The melody is achingly familiar, but Alastor doesn’t know the name of it. It sounds elegant and timeless – a beautiful waltz that used to be danced with much enjoyment somewhere over the ocean in the very heart of Europe, long ago now.

“Recognize this one?” Lucifer asks lightly, offering him a brief side glance.

“I do…but the name eludes me.” Alastor admits.

Lucifer sinks into the upholstery and smiles. “An der schönen blauen Donau.”

“Which translates to…”

“The Blue Danube, which is… not wholly accurate, in my opinion. Rolls off the tongue better, I suppose?”

“What would be the more accurate translation?”

“On the beautiful blue Danube.” Lucifer informs him, pleasant and placid. “I know, sounds a bit clunky, even to me.”

Alastor imagines a large river barge with immaculately dressed couples dancing in front of a full orchestra, just gliding down the wide river. Yes, the impression of water and joy is definitely there.

“It’s probably one of the best known waltzes of all time,” Lucifer says lightly.

Alastor wonders whether Lucifer has danced to it before, back when he still had an interest in staying alive and enjoying at least a part of his immortal existence. Or nigh-immortal, as it were. It would probably have been with Lilith, or even Charlie. Alastor recalls Lucifer’s admission that dancing doesn’t make him think about dying and wonders if he should initiate once more. Would Lucifer even like that, or is he too tired for dancing at this late hour? Not that their previous dance happened any earlier in the day…

When he braves a glance at Lucifer, his eyes are closed and he’s swaying slightly to the beat, following along in his mind, perhaps even imagining that he’s playing the violin part of the arrangement. A human Lucifer would have been a violinist, Alastor muses, and a famous one at that. People would flock to the concert halls to have a chance to listen, and pay a small fortune for it, too. For a second, Alastor can see Lucifer playing fiddle in some smoky speakeasy, and the image is deeply ridiculous, as if someone as refined as Lucifer would go to a lowly place like that, but the idea of it isn’t so easily dislodged from his mind once it takes root. Lucifer, dressed in a pair of dark slacks, his pink pinstripe vest replaced with something matching but in a darker hue, rolled up sleeves, just playing his heart out as the audience drinks their ill-gotten liquor, smoking and talking, glasses clinking against tabletops or raised in toast… He has a feeling Lucifer would have enjoyed such a thing – playing for a crowd. Had Alastor heard him perform whilst alive, would he have asked for a recording so he could play it on the radio? Would he have dared approach Lucifer in the first place – bought him a drink, spoken to him about his music, his inspirations, his dreams?

Just imagining the look Lucifer gave him after performing in front of him the first and only time, the starry glow in his eyes as he asked for Alastor’s opinion… imagining that on a more flawed, human face… would it have moved Alastor any less?

Alastor tears his eyes away and looks at the gramophone, still diligently scratching away at the record, and can’t help but imagine a simpler time, a simpler situation. Lucifer’s pale hand in his, contrasting against the coloring given to Alastor by a mixture of his maman’s creole and his father’s… (unworthy of mention) heritage. There were places to dance, for two men... Or two women, if one knew where to look.

For a split second, he imagines Lucifer as a woman, perhaps a friend of Mimzy’s, a silly flapper rich girl, with blindingly blonde hair up in a solid wave, a lavalier necklace hanging from a pale, china-frail neck and no matter how intriguing the image is, Alastor shakes it off. The earlier fantasy of Lucifer much as he is now, only dressed in late 1920s male fashion coalesces in his mind once more, and is perfectly appealing in its own right. And Lucifer is still sitting half a couch away, all but melted into the upholstery as the fingers of his left hand flicker, conducting an imaginary orchestra. Alastor’s right hand twitches next to his hip, and he swallows. Lucifer’s mild smile makes something in Alastor twist up painfully.

He wants to say something, but words seem cheap, and refuse to form either in his brain or his throat.

“I love this,” Lucifer murmurs happily and Alastor forgets to breathe. “Just…listening to good music.”

Alastor wonders whether his company is needed at all, or whether him being there has facilitated Lucifer’s enjoyment, at least by a tiny fraction. Ordinarily, he would say something about good company, but finds he cannot form the words.

I’m glad you don’t want to die right now, Alastor thinks; something solid lodging itself in his throat, like an errant shard of bone he’s failed to grind up in his teeth.

When has Lucifer’s continued existence become so important to him?

 Why does he want to preserve it?

Certainly, it’s to further his own goals, as Lucifer’s favor, his power, could be instrumental in helping Alastor break out of his bondage. But would that make him as desperate, as unsettled, as unmoored as he’s been feeling? Alastor values his freedom above anything else, and has been laboring to reclaim it after foolishly signing it away at the age of nineteen. Back then, he’d presumed there was nothing after death, content to gain more power for his own means, to better purge his city of scum. It didn’t escape his notice, with the benefit of hindsight, that the entity that had been whispering to him during infrequent voodoo rituals his grand-mère performed, had taken notice of him, but only offered a pact when he’d been cornered and desperate, bemoaning his lack of pure physical strength that would have allowed him to break free of the encirclement the goons had put him into – and as he lay on the muddy ground, getting the tar beaten out of him, he had given himself over to the eldritch whisperings at last – risen up like a wraith and the unleashed shadow plunged into their flesh, devouring them to the sound of sickening, gurgling screams and the audible snap and crackle of bone.

His initial reaction had been one of mute shock and incomprehension, the sharp pain in his ribs more acute than the macabre spectacle he’d witnessed. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, there was nothing left in the dark field around him except footprints of his assailants. Would people notice they were just…gone? Did they tell anyone they were going to assault Alastor and where? The footprints simply disappearing…

He told the shadow that people would notice, but the thing just cackled with a sharp grin and sunk into the ground, leaving five sets of imprints in the softened ground, walking towards the river and… that was that. The shadow grinned, took on his shape, and melded with him once more, as innocuous as a shadow should be – lying on the ground dormant and still.

One day, he would be free once more. Free to kill for a greater purpose at all times, instead of only when his interests fully aligned with that of his deceptive master.

And Lucifer, still taken in by the music…would he help Alastor regain his freedom? And how much would that cost Alastor?

How many more dances, and fleeting touches, and coffee, and sex would it take?

How many more truths will he have to give up before Lucifer finds the worst of them all?

Alastor considers, briefly, what result he might obtain were he to simply…admit it. Tell Lucifer about the cancer he’d fostered in his soul, and oftentimes relished it – if only it didn’t come with the side-effect of losing his freedom…

Wouldn’t Lucifer empathize with someone enslaved?

He might.

But would he agree to help Alastor? Has Alastor given him any reason to? He failed to keep his word, several times, and then…

Sullied his hands with his immaculate blood.

If Alastor were in Lucifer’s shoes, he wouldn’t wish to extend a helping hand, even if he got compensated for it.

What were those words Lucifer threw in his face before his untimely exorcism? ‘You trampled the last bit of goodwill I had for you’, was that it? Alastor supposes he should start engendering some goodwill, no matter how distasteful or daunting the prospect might be.

Lucifer’s grandfather clock strikes midnight to the lively accompaniment of flutes, violins and the occasional strike of the tympanis.

He expects Lucifer to open his eyes any moment now, turn towards him and ask something, but the waltz continues on, uninterrupted. Lucifer is still smiling, as if oblivious to the fact he holds power over Alastor until three truths have been sacrificed on the altar of their deal.

The frenzied violins, supported by the rest of the orchestra, usher in the conclusion of the waltz and the record crackles with silence for a protracted moment. Surely, Lucifer will ask him now. There’s no reason not to. But the silence lapses once more, Lucifer never having opened his eyes, and a sound of piccolos , clarinets and violins fills the room.  The lively melody, underscored by vivacious clinking of a triangle, makes Lucifer’s serene smile bloom into a straight out grin.

Cymbals keep smashing in the background, to dizzying swirl of the violins and frantic trills of the piccolos. Lucifer’s shoulders are bouncing with the melody, higher on the fortes and more subtle on the pianos, both of his hands raised, fingers gesticulating in minute movements, as if he were pulling the strings of a marionette orchestra. On anyone else, such actions would look ridiculous, but Lucifer manages to make it appear almost… endearing. The movements get bigger and freer at the coda, Lucifer sitting up straight, looking like a conductor ready to receive applause for a rousing performance.

Alastor would clap if he weren’t certain it would be mistaken for mockery.

Lucifer sighs happily at the subtle crackle of the record, and in the ensuing silence, opens his eyes.

“Ahh, I do so enjoy a good polka.”

“Is that what it was?” Alastor asks, trying to sound as interested in the information as he is in Lucifer’s expression.

“Sure was!” Lucifer says in a chipper manner. “The Trisch-Trasch Polka!”

“It was…very lively.” Alastor states truthfully.

Lucifer turns to him with a radiant smile, clearly very happy.

Is this how Lucifer would always be, if Alastor didn’t try to needle him most of the time?

Is this how he used to be, before his wife left him – or were any moments of joy and happiness as fleeting as a passing dream?

The next piece starts playing, a stately melody ushered in by violins and cellos, soon joined by clarinets and bassoons. Oboes trill, as the string section crescendoes and Lucifer gives him a bright look.

“Would you like to dance, Alastor?”

In lieu of a verbal answer, Alastor gets up and extends his hands like the perfect gentleman he always pretends to be. Lucifer grins up at him, thrilled by the affectation, or perhaps merely by the prospect of dancing, and places his hand upon Alastor’s, who gracefully pulls him out of his seat.

With a few elegant steps, Alastor leads Lucifer to the vast empty middle of his rooms and positions them. He awaits the next subtle lull in the music and when it restarts, signals they are to begin. Lucifer follows his lead effortlessly, just like that first memorable time they danced. This waltz is not as frenetic as the previous one they partook in, and Lucifer smiles broadly as they glide around the room in wide sweeps, his neck extended prettily like a swan’s. Alastor executes a modest dip during the pianissimo, Lucifer bending backwards gracefully.

As percussion swells, Alastor picks up the pace a bit, noting that Lucifer is enjoying the vivaciousness and Alastor lifts him up for a half-rotation, then brings him down again. The waltz doesn’t stay lively, however, turning a bit more sedate, a bit more somber, and Alastor tries very hard to keep the mood up while it lasts, relieved to note that Lucifer’s smile doesn’t drop for a single second. Alastor must admit to himself that Lucifer is a wonderful dancer, infusing each movement with energy and poise, and following every cue as if he’s been attuned to Alastor for years. That kind of ease with an infrequent partner was enviable.

Ritardando stretches on and on, and Alastor risks bringing Lucifer closer, flutes floating above them in a long trill, resolving into bold horns and trumpets, signaling the impending end of the waltz. Alastor raises Lucifer up, above his head and spins him in a circle, Lucifer laughing as his lush crimson wings spread out, helping Alastor hold him aloft.

He stares, spellbound, at the vivid plumage, at Lucifer’s bright, lightly crinkled eyes, and wishes the music would go on. He hopes for another waltz, or even a polka, but the silence stretches and the needle reaches the end point of this side of the record.

Ever so gently, Alastor lowers Lucifer and deposits him on the ground, the flutter of Lucifer’s wings sending a cool updraft against Alastor’s ever-smiling face.  Reluctantly, Alastor relinquishes his hold on Lucifer and takes a polite bow. With a delighted grin, Lucifer fucking curtsies him, his wings along for the ride, folding like a delicate lady’s fan.

“Another?” Alastor asks, hoping against hope that Lucifer will take him up on the offer.

Lucifer looks up and cracks a massive yawn, hiding it somewhat unsuccessfully behind the dark fingers of his left hand.

“Ordinarily–” Lucifer says apologetically, stretching his shoulders out.  “–I would like nothing better, but I’m really beat. Sorry.” His wings fade from sight, and he rubs his eyes, as if the last of his energy was expended on the dance and on powering up his smile.

“Would you like me to turn the record over? Or to put it away?” Alastor inquires.

“Oh, would you?” Lucifer smiles in gratitude. “Put it away, I mean? I would really appreciate it. I think I need to wash my face unless I want to fall asleep standing up.”

“Feel free,” Alastor says easily and leaves his spot, hopefully less reluctantly than he feels it to be. He heads for the gramophone and pulls the handle up and away from the record. With careful fingers, he takes up the record by its thin edge and places his thumb on the label. His shadow locates the vinyl sleeve and holds it aloft for Alastor to slide the record back in. He takes the record without a word and cracks open the cabinet he saw Lucifer pull it out of previously. Browsing the collection alphabetically, he slides it back where it belongs, between Strauss and Stravinsky.

From somewhere behind him, he can hear the faucet running in Lucifer’s bathroom, followed by barely audible splashing.

The cabinet closes with a subtle click.

Alastor takes a fortifying breath and straightens out once more. What now? He takes in the room, and notices that it seems marginally less empty than before, what with the addition of the record collection, the grandfather clock, the couch, and a pile of papers, books, and most curiously – quills dipped in ink on the desk – the room looks more lived in. It’s still sparse, but not as achingly empty anymore.

Lucifer emerges a tad more fresh-faced from the bathroom.

They look at each other from across the room and for a long moment, neither of them says a word.

Alastor wonders whether Lucifer feels just as wrong footed, just as uncertain about the situation they find themselves in.

“Could we just… retire for the night?” Lucifer asks – his exhaustion evident.

“Is that your first question for the day?” Alastor asks, feeling the warning tingles of compulsion prickling the skin of his neck.

Lucifer exhales in a tired huff. “Fuck, forgot all about that… ugh, sure, whatever.”

One question wasted. So far, so good. 

Alastor answers. “I wouldn’t mind. Though… I find it odd that you would welcome me?”

“I’m not going to throw you out, Alastor.” Lucifer groans and undoes his vest.

“You should.” Alastor says truthfully, too wrung out to dissimulate effectively.

“Yeah, well… I don’t want to.” Lucifer says simply and shrugs out of his vest, hanging it over his desk chair.

“Why?” Alastor inquires, needing to understand Lucifer’s reasoning.

“Because…” Lucifer pauses, fingers halting on the second button of his pristine white shirt. His expression falls, turning about as appealing as the downswing of an executioner’s axe. Alastor can almost taste the precipitous change in Lucifer’s mood.

“How many times did you want to die today?” Alastor asks quietly, startling Lucifer so badly he actually looks at him square in the eye from the left side of the bed.

“That’s…not a fair question.” Lucifer murmurs and looks down at his buttons.

“Just answer it.”

“I was happy in the morning?” Lucifer offers before his face falls. “I was miserable in the night. I…I don’t want to die right now… Is that good enough for you?”

Alastor wishes he could vanish the table between them and just–

“It’ll have to do.” He says, instead.

Lucifer shrugs and removes his shirt, draping it over his vest.

Alastor wishes he could understand, but he doesn’t. Still rooted to the spot, he wonders aloud: “Why me?”

“Huh? What do you mean?” Lucifer asks, half-turned away from him, busy pulling his boots off.

“Of all the sinners in Hell, why allow me…near you.”

“Allow?”

“Fine, choose.”

Lucifer stows his boots next to his desk and turns to Alastor with a contemplative look. When they eventually emerge, the words are as plain and unadorned as his tone: “Because you offered.”

“That’s it?” Alastor asks, bewildered.

“Yeah,” Lucifer shrugs. “It’s that simple.”

Alastor stares mutely at Lucifer’s trousers sliding down his legs as he steps out of them and throws them carelessly over the rest of the clothing now adorning the chair. Lucifer drags the palm of his left hand down his tired face and shuffles over to the left side of the bed – his side of the bed. How long has he been sleeping on that side of the bed? Was it a habit from being married to someone for so long that Lucifer couldn’t even imagine changing it now?

Alastor looks at Lucifer crawling under the covers and attempting to make himself comfortable. What should he do now?

Undress?

Ask Lucifer for a pair of pajamas?

Have his shadow fetch a pair from his quarters?

Instead of asking or making an executive decision, he just stands there gormlessly, paralyzed with indecision.

“You can always take the couch if you really want,” Lucifer chimes in from the bed, eyes two dim stars in the sparsely illuminated room. “I can’t guarantee how comfortable it is to sleep on, though, especially for someone of your height.”

Alastor feels an almost crushing sense of relief at the fact that Lucifer has misinterpreted the source of his reluctance.

“I suppose that doesn’t leave me with much of a choice,” Alastor says quietly.

Lucifer sighs and burrows under the covers, his voice an indistinct murmur: “Your enthusiasm is fucking contagious.”

Alastor takes an awkward step forward. “That’s…not what I meant. I was merely…stating the obvious.”

One of Lucifer’s eyes fixes on him from across the room, tired, yet assessing.

“If you’re waiting for an invitation, I hope a verbal one will suffice, because I’m too tired to compose you a damned letter.”

“No need to be tetchy,” Alastor attempts to diffuse Lucifer’s exasperated anger. “I will be there shortly.”

Needing a minute to compose himself, Alastor strides to Lucifer’s bathroom, hoping that his host for the night will find that an acceptable detour. As the doors close behind him, he breathes out a sigh of relief to no longer have Lucifer’s eyes on him.

This feels different – more discomfiting than the last time he shed his clothes in front of Lucifer. Is that because he isn’t aroused in the least this time around? Alastor doesn’t know for sure, and the thought is deeply disquieting. He looks up and is met with the mirror image of his own bathroom, albeit with entirely different décor and color scheme. Instead of muted, pastel green tiles, Lucifer’s bathroom is clad in shocking, midnight black. The floor is a black and white mosaic tile, and the overly ornate mirror above the white marble sink is framed in gold. The art deco light fixtures spill out ambient, indirect light, and the bathroom is shockingly cozy for all its elegant austerity.

When he comes closer to the mirror, he is entirely unsurprised to see a motif of spread-out wings etched into the frame. The spout on the faucet is gilded, sporting an engraving of a coiled snake, and the elegant handles look to be made of black onyx.

The choice of colors is so incongruous with the rest of Lucifer’s taste in décor that Alastor wonders whether he’s stepped into a different dimension. Shaking his head, he decides to relieve himself before bed, just to occupy himself with something he could reasonably present as an excuse later.

Why black, of all things?

Pondering that as he aims into the black porcelain throne, Alastor looks up and his breath catches in his throat. The ceiling above him is vaulted and enchanted, a swirl of galaxies and stars twinkling serenely down at him. Naturally, it’s a false sky, but the fact Lucifer would go out of his way to create a room for himself that offers a glimpse into the night sky above Earth…

Alastor stares up, completely transfixed by the beauty of the starry expanse.

Now he knows why the lights are so understated – it is so nothing can detract from the stunning view.

Does Lucifer simply lie in his tub and observe the movement of the stars across the sky? Is it a current view or merely a memory of a sky he saw before he was chained so deep underground, never to gaze upon it again?

It’s hauntingly beautiful…

Alastor tears his eyes away.

He coughs and puts himself away, flushing the toilet after he’s done.

He supposes he should wash his gloves instead of rematerializing. It would buy him more time. His heels click against the tiles as he walks back to the sink and pushes one of the handles up with his knuckles, the room filling with the sound of hot water. There’s no bar of soap, a pitch black soap dispenser with a gold spout waiting to the left instead. He presses down on it and a trickle of sweet-smelling, pale pink liquid lands on the palm of his gloved hand. He lathers his gloves, feeling distinctly silly for landing himself in this situation, but he goes through with it regardless. As the lather is being rinsed under the hot spray of water, Alastor has a startling realization that there isn’t a yellow duck in sight, something he would have expected Lucifer’s rooms to be positively swimming in, but it seems the man has chosen to compartmentalize the damned things and leave them all in the palace.

Alastor stares at himself in the mirror.

That is precisely what he needs to do – compartmentalize.

He swallows and exhales shakily. Lucifer isn’t here to watch him. That is the only thing making what he has to do even remotely bearable.

Alastor peels his gloves off, and leaves them by the sink.

His bowtie comes next.

His coat.

His shoes – the tiles are warm and comfortable.

He folds the clothing on the bare countertop extending off the sink.

His trousers.

His shirt.

His eyes reflect fear as his hands hover behind his back, not yet tangled in the knot holding his laces tight. He was so out of it last time that he didn’t even notice he had allowed Lucifer to lie on him without it on.

This is the price, he reminds himself.

Of penance.

Of sin.

He looks down into the pristine sink and yanks at the knot, feeling the laces give as the pressure disappears. He hooks his clawed finger under the intersections and loosens the hold further, pulling from the middle up, and after he deems it loose enough, he repeats the process and releases the laces from the middle and down. Once it’s hanging loosely upon his hips, Alastor unhooks the metal fastenings in the front. As always, being freed of it is both a relief and faint regret. The bared skin underneath is marred with the indentations of fabric and boning.

It’s deeply human, and more vulnerable than he wishes Lucifer to see, but if he tarries any longer, he will lose his nerve altogether and flee these rooms like a coward.

He leaves his underwear on, led by Lucifer’s example – at least something.

He smoothes down the corset and folds it up, leaving it on top of the pile. With a deep breath, he looks at his expression in the mirror and finds it blank, his smile bland and almost fearful.

Nervous.

His fingers tremble while taking the monocle off, and it makes him grit his teeth. He’s as ready as he’ll ever be. Alastor places his monocle on the right, next to his gloves, and leaves the bathroom without sparing the mirror a second glance.

The sparse lighting winks out the moment his feet are past the threshold. He closes the door behind him and turns around slowly, hoping that Lucifer is already asleep and that he will be spared the indignity of coming to bed so unpresentable and bared.

To his dismay, Lucifer’s eyes glow in the darkness, taking him in. Mercifully, the King chooses to say nothing.

Alastor walks to the bed, making as little noise as he can and flips the covers on the right side of the bed over so he can climb in. Lucifer’s unrelenting stare prickles across his skin. Only once he’s covered to the chin does Alastor remember to breathe.

“What are you afraid of?” Lucifer asks softly and Alastor can feel the hairs at the back of his neck standing up in alert as the compulsion tingles at the back of his skull.

“Is that…your second question for the day?” He squeezes out, failing to suppress a tremble.

“You don’t have to answer,” Lucifer murmurs, and the overwhelming compulsion dissolves into muted discomfort. “I was just wondering.”

“Do I look scared?” Alastor asks, turning to face Lucifer, who is looking quite alert for someone clearly on the brink of exhaustion.

“I’m not sure,” Lucifer answers honestly. “Looks like a mixture of terror and apprehension to me. I just don’t understand why, that’s all.”

It is terror, Alastor realizes. With a heaping, steaming side dish of apprehension. And possibly a mint garnish of utter, humiliating shame.

How can he tell Lucifer that he’s never…

“I won’t touch you, you know that,” Lucifer says mildly, but there’s an undercurrent of something else beneath his words – disappointment being Alastor’s first guess.

He doesn’t know which is worse, the fact that Lucifer is going out of his way to reassure him, or the fact that Alastor feels a kindred kind of disappointment in return?

“Just sleep, Alastor.” Lucifer instructs, exhaustion finally winning.

“Aren’t you going to use your two questions?”

Lucifer groans and cracks an eye open. “You can’t take any more questions right now.”

The observation is both ruthlessly astute and uncommonly kind, and Alastor has no idea what to do with that.

“I suppose that’s good night, then.” Alastor says superfluously.

“Good night, Alastor.” Lucifer says tiredly, closing his eyes once more.

Alastor observes a while longer, the subtle gleam of Lucifer’s blonde hair fanned across the pillow, awash in the palest purple and red coming from the city lights beyond the wide windows.  As long as Lucifer doesn’t watch him, Alastor’s pervasive feeling of dread is muted.

How could he ever tell Lucifer what he is afraid of, when he isn’t even sure himself?

‘I’m afraid of what I will become with prolonged exposure to you’ isn’t exactly what anyone wishes to hear from a partner, even one as transactional and duty-bound as Alastor is.

No, the truth remains (as ever) the most dangerous thing to say of all.

Alastor imagines, for a brief moment, what it would be like to simply reach out and touch Lucifer with no fears or expectations on either side.

His hands remain stubbornly at his sides, buried deep under the covers.

Chapter Text

Alastor awakens with a muffled groan, squinting in the semi-darkness.

His blurry vision goes white for a moment and he blinks blearily several times to clear the image before his eyes. Lucifer’s sleeping face invades his field of view, from much closer than he remembers last night.  Fine golden hair has fallen over his forehead and is partly obscuring his closed eyelids, Lucifer’s breathing deep and even.

Despite the massive bed and the positions they’d fallen asleep in, it would seem that Lucifer has managed to migrate closer during the night, half-curled up in the very middle, straddling the line between their pillows. To his dismay, Alastor realizes that he’s changed positions as well, turned on his side to face Lucifer, his hand lying splayed in the middle, just shy of touching smooth, gray skin of Lucifer’s forearm. Jet black fingers are curled up into a loose fist near Lucifer’s chin, and he looks like a tucked in child.

Alastor swallows.

Looking at a child should not elicit the kind of twisted up emotion he is currently experiencing.

His fingers twitch, unresponsive to his self-control, fingertips brushing against soft gray skin. The brief point of contact burns across his nerve-endings like a sudden electric shock.

Lucifer doesn’t move in the slightest, still fast asleep. Alastor feels a strange compulsion to reach out and brush Lucifer’s hair out of his eyes, but the thought of being caught in the act stays his hand. He shouldn’t act so hastily without at least a good excuse at the ready. He deems that ‘it just looked so soft’ isn’t an appropriately convincing argument.

Instead, Alastor allows his gaze to caress every place he cannot touch. The disarrayed strands of soft blonde hair, the smooth brow, the lightly-bruised eyelids. The mild curve of Lucifer’s mouth, lax in repose, half-obscured by slender black fingers.

“Lucifer,” he murmurs, taking in the subtle scent of summer infused into the sheets beneath them.

The angel doesn’t stir, undisturbed by Alastor’s reckless utterance of his name. Lucifer, restful and still, is a vision. Alastor feels as if he’s standing at the top of the highest mountain, where the air is thin and frigid, witnessing a blinding, bone-warming dawn.

Beautiful, echoes in his mind.

Sublime.

“Perfect…” Alastor murmurs, barely audible in the absolute quiet of Lucifer’s rooms.

He has been handed a rare opportunity, to act as a weight on Lucifer’s balancing scales. They have been dangerously tipped for a long time, and he’s made a promise that feels just as binding as any soul deal he’s ever made – perhaps even more so, because there’s no odious compulsion behind it to remind him that he isn’t truly free.

How many more freedoms can Lucifer bestow upon him?

Before him, unaware, lies the chain-breaker, as broken as the fetters he’s shattered.

Perhaps it was time to reforge him anew, like the perfect, truth-bringing spear of enlightenment he is.

Alastor could be the tempering fire. The measured strike of a hammer. The quelling pool.

The whetstone.

I will make you into a king fit to rule over all, Alastor promises. I will make them all kneel before you.

Alastor would lead the demonic hosts and purge all of Hell in Lucifer’s name.

But first, he had to get Lucifer more stable.

How, though? What could possibly give Lucifer Morningstar, the perpetually depressed and borderline suicidal fallen angel, a real reason and motivation to live? If his marriage and his daughter weren’t enough, what could be? Was there even anything he could do?

Hold him accountable. Don’t feed into his depression. Make him active and alert.

Distract him.

Alastor could try. With a steady diet of challenge and distraction, it was possible to dislodge Lucifer from his millennia-long rut. As long as Alastor never allowed him to wallow… He could make Lucifer come into his own majesty, like an ugly duckling growing into a beautiful swan.

This isn’t the time for idle hesitation. He’ll leave that to Lucifer. Besides, if Alastor intends to get anywhere with Lucifer, he cannot afford to remain paralyzed with indecision.

One reluctant person in this arrangement is more than enough.

He needs to show initiative, demonstrate to his king that he is dedicated to his cause.

Their cause.

Alastor reaches out, fingers brushing the soft strands of hair away from Lucifer’s face. This is acceptable, he thinks, putting his worries to rest. After all, Lucifer enjoyed this the previous morning – being touched as he slumbered.  Alastor trails his knuckles down the smooth curve of Lucifer’s cheek, his skin prickling at the sensation, so warm and smooth. Lucifer complexion is clear like the finest porcelain, and the feeling of it against his fingertips is incongruous – porcelain should be cold and stiff. Exquisite softness greets him instead, as warm as a downy pillow warmed by a full night’s rest.

Lucifer’s mouth opens a fraction and he squirms under the caress, making a subtle purring noise somewhere in the back of his throat.

Alastor drinks him in, sleepy and squirming, and runs his fingers through Lucifer’s sinfully silky hair. Lucifer mewls softly and Alastor feels himself stirring in response. It should be punishable by law, this level of unintentional and unaffected beauty. No one should be this endearing while so utterly defenseless. Alastor suppresses the groan at the involuntary response he can feel transpiring under the covers. To be so affected with Lucifer doing absolutely nothing…

Alastor should honestly resent it more, but he takes comfort in the fact that Lucifer is entirely unaware. Besides, having Lucifer entirely at his mercy, so pliant and trusting in his grasp… it feels…powerful.

“Good morning,” Alastor murmurs softly. An endearment hovers at the tip of the tongue, but he swallows it down. “Lucifer…”

“Mmm…” Lucifer moans impossibly softly as Alastor caresses his neck.

The skin is unbroken, Alastor reminds himself as he shivers – there’s no blood, no injury to be found.

“Wake up–” darling.

“Hnnnh,” Lucifer groans and his eyelids flutter open.

“There you are,” Alastor murmurs in a low voice. Sweetheart.

Lucifer blinks and awareness slowly creeps in, a soft smile blooming on his face as he mutters a tired little: “You.”

Alastor’s heart stutters in his chest.

“Less disappointed today, I see.” Alastor says smugly.

“Nnh, shut up.” Lucifer huffs and closes his eyes once more.  “S’ too early for banter.”

“Is that so–” Alastor croons sweetly, “–your Majesty?”

Lucifer snorts into his pillow and cracks an eye open. “Too early for shitty role-play, too.”

“Role-what?” Alastor asks, unfamiliar with the term Lucifer used.

“Look it up.” Lucifer giggles.

“Fine, keep your secrets…” Alastor grins lazily at him.

Lucifer stretches, cracking a yawn so big Alastor can see the forked tongue in his mouth.

“Unh, what time is it?” Lucifer asks.

“Don’t know,” Alastor drawls. “Don’t care.”

Lucifer snort laughs and swats at Alastor’s hand lightly. Undeterred, Alastor captures Lucifer’s errant hand by entwining their fingers. Lucifer’s eyes go wide for a moment.

“Why, are you having breakfast with Charlie again?” Alastor inquires, pulling Lucifer’s hand closer to himself.

Lucifer looks at him through half-lidded eyes and allows the minor manhandling.

“No, we only do that once a week. I’m pretty sure me monopolizing her mornings would cramp Vaggie’s style – I’m not that cruel.”

“How sweet,” Alastor croons and kisses Lucifer’s knuckles. “Looking out for your child’s love life.”

“I was young and in love, once.” Lucifer says mildly.

Alastor feels his smile slip at the statement. He hopes Lucifer hasn’t noticed as he forces it wider and kisses Lucifer’s fingers before relinquishing his hold.

“This is nice,” Lucifer murmurs. “But we should probably get up.”

“Have any pressing appointments?” Alastor asks, only mildly needling.

Lucifer glares at him, unimpressed. “Yeah, with my toothbrush.”

Despite himself, Alastor snickers at the awful joke.

“Feel free to laze around for a bit longer,” Lucifer says with a little smirk.

“Oh my,” Alastor lounges on the bed, hands behind his head like he owns the place. “I do believe I’m going to take you up on such a generous offer.”

Lucifer snorts and clambers out of the bed, muttering what sounds suspiciously like: “Smug prick…” under his breath.

Alastor watches him go with an avid gaze and a blinding smirk.

The door to the bathroom closes behind Lucifer and Alastor enjoys himself for the moment, sinking deeper into the decadently soft pillows. There’s a sound of running water from the bathroom and if he really strains his ears, barely audible brushing that follows.

Clearly not depressed enough not to keep up with basic hygiene. Maybe that simply didn’t fit with Lucifer’s image? Perhaps he’s simply vain, who knows? They have a sin in common, after all.

Alastor dozes for a moment, enjoying the comfort of Lucifer’s outrageously ostentatious bed. It’s too soft for his tastes, but still…he wonders how many demons can boast sharing the king’s bed?

Is he the only one besides Lilith who ever managed it?

Warm tingles suffuse his flesh.

“You woke up in a good mood,” Lucifer drawls and Alastor looks towards the bathroom door, ready to offer a perfectly pointed retort, when his voice utterly betrays him, fizzling out somewhere in the immediate vicinity of his vocal cords. Lucifer is standing in the bathroom doorway, leaning against it, dressed in nothing but Alastor's shirt, closed courtesy of a single button. The shirt reaches halfway down Lucifer’s thigh, and the sleeves are rolled up to the elbow. His clavicles are exposed, and the shirt is half-hanging off of Lucifer’s left shoulder.

It’s way too big for him, obviously.

Alastor’s tongue dries out in his mouth.

“Pity you never answered whether you liked the sight of me in your clothes.” Lucifer teases from the doorway, the crack in the unbuttoned shirt providing an unintended slit in the material which reveals more of Lucifer’s smooth white thigh.

Rallying as best as he’s able, Alastor points out: “May I remind you that you have two questions left for today?”

Lucifer inquires, voice more kind than teasing: “Would you mind answering?”

With only a moment’s hesitation, Alastor responds. “I would not.”

Lucifer peels himself out of the doorway; the door shutting on its own behind him and approaches the bed, gaze locked with Alastor’s. “Do you like how I look in your shirt?” Lucifer asks with unexpected intensity.

Alastor sits up in bed, willing the compulsion to ease up, as he has no plans on fighting the terms of their deal, at least not for the moment.

“Yes, I do.” Alastor purrs darkly. “My colors look good on you - crimson and black.” Alastor stares at the pretty picture Lucifer presents, appreciative despite Lucifer’s transgression against his vestments. Lucifer comes to a halt at the edge of the bed and Alastor reaches out to trail fingers along Lucifer's collarbone and down his sternum.

Lucifer shivers.

“Would you mind if I used my third question now?”

“If you must,” Alastor says with a suffering sigh, but his heart isn’t really into it.

The air between them crackles with static, and it isn’t only the radio kind.

“Do you...want to kiss me?” Lucifer murmurs, looking him in the eye.

Alastor feels a tug, a tingle, a shiver at the back of his neck, reminding him that he cannot lie.

“I'm tempted,” Alastor admits. “Very tempted.” Lucifer shivers in front of him, gaze averted to Alastor’s lips, almost as if he’s imagining it in advance. “Why, would you let me?”

Lucifer looks up into his eyes and smiles coyly. “I would.”

Alastor moves forward, wrestling with the covers to get closer to Lucifer, who’s still standing in the same spot, lightly flushed and expectant. Now perched at the edge of the bed, Alastor cups Lucifer’s cheek, clawed fingertips teasing the soft skin of Lucifer’s neck and draws him in.

The press of Lucifer’s lips is soft and gentle, but the touch is electrifying, skittering down Alastor’s nerve endings like a fistful of gravel thrown against a window to gain the attention of the person in the room behind it. The kiss is languid and soft, Lucifer melting into it with no reservations, humming and pliant against Alastor’s lips. Honoring his preference, Lucifer makes no attempt to deepen the kiss, but makes a lingering, pleased noise while it lasts.

Out of ideas and also slightly out of breath, Alastor breaks the kiss, thumb brushing lightly against the apple of Lucifer’s cheek.

“Mmm,” Lucifer moans lightly and opens his eyes. “Pity I ran out of questions for the day.”

“You could ask anyways.” Alastor murmurs, realizing he’s working against his own best interests by encouraging it.

Lucifer’s gaze is keen and soft. “Did you…enjoy that?”

Alastor wants to lie simply to be contrary, but the truth tumbles out of his mouth regardless: “I did.”

“What, as long as no tongue is involved?” Lucifer grins cheekily.

The scent of Lucifer teases his nostrils. Apple and mint, like a frivolous girl’s drink.

“Depends on what you taste like.”

Lucifer chuckles. “What kind of taste are we talking here?”

“Hmm...coffee would be good.” Alastor suggests, his only response a wide smirk. “Speaking of coffee... it's your turn to make some.”

“Oh, we're taking turns now?”

“Yes,” Alastor says assertively.

“We'll need to go to the palace for that.” Lucifer points out and Alastor finally removes his hand.

His fingers tingle with the memory of Lucifer’s skin.

“Is that a problem?” Alastor asks, flinging the covers off to get up.

“Nope. A portal or two should be fine. Come along.”

“May I have my shirt back?” Alastor asks bluntly.

Lucifer laughs in delight and bites his lower lip. “Nope!”

“Commandeering my clothing, seriously?” Alastor says, deeply unimpressed.

“If you want to take it off, you’ll have to do it with your own hands.” Lucifer challenges him and with a snap of his fingers, a swirling golden portal opens behind him. With an unrepentant grin, Lucifer sprints through it.

It’s ridiculously juvenile, but Alastor takes a moment to assess. If he reclaims his shirt, Lucifer would be left in nothing but his underwear, which isn’t the worst option in all honesty. But Lucifer being naked would also mean Alastor can no longer enjoy the sight of him in his shirt, which… might be a shame.

With a sigh, Alastor follows.

Chapter Text

Alastor steps through the portal, expecting Lucifer to still be running away, possibly even hiding from him, but the sight that greets him betrays any expectations he might have had.

Lucifer’s back is turned on him and he’s staring at an open kitchen cabinet.

The kitchen is less of a modernist, sterile nightmare than the one Alastor is forced to use at the hotel, but the appliances still seem more recent than what Alastor was used to in life. The floor is tiled in a wide checkered pattern of soft yellow and eggshell white. The cabinets are a similar off-white color with glass knobs. Off to one side there is an L shaped, tiled countertop that runs into a stove and oven combination, the dials large and made of a heavier metal. The stove and countertop are a matching, soft lemon color, along with the refrigerator – a sleek design with rounded edges and long, metal handles.

Contrasting all this cutesy, cheery kitchen decor, however, is by far the most stunning feature of the room – the false window. It straddles the entire expanse of the back wall, revealing a breathtaking view of a vast orchard full of blooming cherry trees against the backdrop of a clear blue sky.  The wind is blowing through the riot of pink blossoms beyond the half-opened window, and Alastor can even smell them, the scent drifting into the kitchen, carried on the soft, temperate breeze. Despite the mesmerizing, if overly sentimental view, Alastor knows for a fact that it’s all an illusion, albeit a very convincing one. In this respect, it’s not much different than the Bayou, except it’s depicting a warm spring day instead of a humid summer night. Petals swirl and dance with one another, flitting past the window panes only to be whisked off into the clear, pleasant blue of a sunny sky.

The illusion is completed by a varied and pleasant twitter of birds that cannot be seen.

Underneath the window is an L shaped breakfast nook, topped with yellow and white pillows, and a small round table with two homely wooden chairs sporting yellow cushions.

“Glad you like the view,” Lucifer says with a teasing lilt to his voice, and Alastor finally tears his eyes away from the scenery and refocuses on Lucifer, basked in soft golden daylight, sticking out like a bloodstain against the backdrop of the mellow kitchen.

“What was the point of this little exercise?” Alastor asks, still mildly miffed by the theft of his shirt.

“No point,”Lucifer laughs, bright and clear, leaned against the kitchen countertop, all comfortable. “Just having fun.”

“Can you at least conjure me a covering of some kind?”

“Why?” Lucifer asks, expression turning mischievous. “Are you cooooold?”

“Hardly.”

“Awww, feeling a little bit exposed are we?” Lucifer needles him unrepentantly.

Alastor thinks to himself that with Lucifer around, one always feels at least a little bit exposed.

Lucifer heads towards him, staring at him in blatant appraisal as he makes a circuit around Alastor, inspecting him as if he were goods on a market stall. Truthfully, Alastor isn’t sure how that makes him feel, though the word uncomfortable springs readily to mind.

Lucifer steps behind him and halts in his tracks.

“Alastor…” Lucifer gasps, all teasing evaporating from his tone. “…your back.”

“What about it?” Alastor says, pretending to be completely unaffected. He supposes this would have happened sooner or later. It’s not as if he’s ashamed of it, he just prefers not to display it. People have no business staring at his exposed back anyhow.

“Sinners don’t usually have…” Lucifer trails off. “They don’t carry over wounds unless…”

“Unless?” Alastor asks, simply to move the interaction along, hopefully away from this particular topic.

“Unless they are somehow significant – like that x on your forehead – the killing blow.” Lucifer says softly, with a frankly baffling amount of consideration. “Unless they made a mark…on the soul.”

“Fascinating,” Alastor says dismissively, discomfited by the implication.

“These look like…torture marks.”

“They are not.” Alastor assures him.

“How old were you when you got these?”

“Does it matter?” Alastor points out. It’s ancient history at this point, and he has been well avenged of it – twice over. Once by the means of a well-sharpened hatchet, and the other by means of angelic steel – a permanent and well deserved end.

“Hold on, I don’t even know how old you were when you died?”

“Thirty-six.” Alastor answers, hoping the barely relevant piece of information will sufficiently distract Lucifer.

“So young…” Lucifer says softly. “Were these inflicted…in adulthood?” The tone is hopeful, almost like Lucifer dreads thinking about the alternative.

Alastor holds his tongue. Lucifer makes a wounded little noise.

The question is subdued and audibly pained. “Or were you still a child?”

“Define ‘child’.”

“Let’s say…younger than sixteen?” Lucifer helpfully offers a definition.

Alastor doesn’t want to mention it, but the cutoff point is interesting.

“I was fully capable of living on my own at sixteen.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Lucifer says mildly, eyes full of something uncomfortably close to pity. “How old were you when these were inflicted upon you?”

Like ripping off a Band-Aid, Alastor says: “Thirteen.”

Lucifer gasps, his face a mixture of dismay and anger. “Who would do such a thing to a child?”

Alastor laughs. “My father would.”

Lucifer’s expression turns to one of outright horror. “What kind of parent… would do this?”

“Not every parent loves their children.” Alastor points out. In his experience, most parents were abject failures, in one way or the other. He was at least blessed with an exceptional mother, even if his father was human refuse.

Lucifer blinks, unable to parse the information – and of course he wouldn’t, as overflowing with parental affection as he was.

“I…I truly cannot relate to that.”

Alastor shrugs. “It’s not as if yours treated you much better.”

Lucifer’s brow knits. “That’s…that’s different!” Lucifer exclaims defensively. “I wasn’t…maimed by my own creator!”

Alastor rolls his eyes at the descriptor used – the marks are purely cosmetic, the small tangle of criss-crossing raised lines across the small of his back, and they don’t even hurt anymore, not like when he was alive. To classify something of the sort as maiming was pointlessly dramatic.

“Were you not?” Alastor asks incisively. “Was casting you down here and chaining you up any less maiming – to your soul?”

Lucifer, intentionally or unintentionally, sidesteps the question.

“Why did he do this to you? Because I can’t imagine there being a good reason to go this far…”

“When he didn’t have a valid reason, he’d simply invent one anyway.”

“That’s…horrible.”

“In this instance, it’s probably because I got in his way?” Alastor muses. In the way of harming his mother, that is.

Lucifer swallows, almost as if he wants to reach out and touch the raised lines, but refrains.

“I, ah…I’ll conjure you something.” Lucifer snaps his fingers and suddenly, Alastor is enveloped in a sleek midnight black tunic that covers him up from neck to mid-thigh. It’s looser than he’s accustomed to wearing, but it is effective at hiding his few scars and his tail, which he is thankful for.

“There you go,” Lucifer says awkwardly. “I hope it’s comfy!”

Alastor touches the material in assessment, and it’s soft and comfortable under his fingertips. “It will do.” He sniffs haughtily.

When he faces Lucifer once more, he catches him staring at his long, vaguely deer-configured legs, likely because Alastor is still so uncharacteristically bared.

With a smirk he says: “My eyes…are up here.”

Lucifer wheezes out an incredulous laugh. “Wow! You never let anything go, do you?”

“Not my style,” Alastor makes a theatrical flourish with his arm.

Lucifer just shakes his head in amusement.“So, um… coffee?”He visibly makes an effort to switch the topic. It’s nowhere near as smooth as he probably hopes it was. “Coming right up!” Lucifer busies himself with brewing coffee, pulling out a turkish cezve coffee pot, and a dark, crinkly paper bag containing fragrantly roasted coffee beans out of one of the kitchen cabinets.

Alastor sits down at the table and makes himself comfortable, happy to simply observe the proceedings. With his legs crossed and swinging lightly, fingers entwined against his knee, he waits, enjoying the illusion of mild spring emanating from the window to his left. 

“Oh, right!” Lucifer exclaims, standing barefoot next to the stove. With a spiral movement of his black fingers, he conjures a large glass bottle with a round-tipped glass stopper.

“I promised you this!” Lucifer says, all smiles and chipper tones. The bottle floats to the table and lands against the pristine white tablecloth with nary a whisper. “If you run out, just…just tell me. I will refill it.”

Alastor is mildly mesmerized by the dewy condensation against the frosty glass. An impossible sight in Hell. “You will?” He asks, skeptical.

“Yes.” Lucifer says earnestly.

“Why?” Does Lucifer really not want anything in return?

Lucifer’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “Because I’ll be drinking your coffee too, obviously.”

Ah, so that was the angle. Fine, Alastor can live with that.

“Hm. I’ll think about it.” He says haughtily, pleased to act coy.

Lucifer chuckles. “You do that.”

With that, Lucifer turns his back to Alastor once more, cranking the handle on a sleek black manual coffee grinder. Alastor finds it puzzling that Lucifer would do such a thing manually instead of by magic. Perhaps he finds the ritual of it as soothing Alastor does. Fresh, conjured water fills the cezve and Lucifer brings the gas stove to life, blue flames licking merrily against the bottom of the copper pot. Alastor’s eyes stray lower, taking in the smooth back of Lucifer’s exposed legs, his form lithe and compact, skin without a single blemish. The fabric of Alastor’s slightly wrinkled shirt caresses Lucifer’s milky white thighs.

Alastor’s fingers twitch against his bony knee.

The water soon bubbles up, releasing tendrils of steam into the air, and Lucifer lowers the flame, delicately spooning the finely ground coffee into the scalding water. He stirs well, moves practiced and sure, like he’s made this exact pot of coffee a million times before. Unexpectedly, Alastor’s mouth waters at the memory of its sublime taste. Then his mind floods with the memory of Lucifer spilling it into his mouth and he feels a tendril of heat unfurl in his gut.

Lucifer allows the coffee to bubble up and rise twice, and then turns off the heat, stirring it gently. With soft footfalls against gleaming kitchen tile, Lucifer brings a woven reed coaster and the cezve to the table. Two coffee cups with saucers land on the table, also presumably Turkish in design – a pleasantly stylized floral pattern scrawled across the white surface. Lucifer pours them both a hefty dose and sits down on the chair next to Alastor’s.

Alastor picks up the cup, enjoying the fragrance that’s wafting into the air so enticingly, promising a rich, bitter taste. Lucifer, ever predictable, dunks two lumps of sugar into his cup. For the next few minutes, neither of them says a word, both perfectly content to carefully sip their coffee in companionable silence. Alastor stares at the chilled glass bottle of water he was given, momentarily finding that preferable over staring at Lucifer as he lounges about in his chair, close enough to touch, his smooth white thighs invitingly draped in crimson.

Alastor is confused by the impulse. It’s not as if he’s aroused – his member remains blissfully flaccid in his undergarments, so why do his hands itch with the need to stroke the expanse of that soft skin?

“You know what?” Lucifer says suddenly, jarring Alastor out of his thoughts. “Are you hungry?”

“Perhaps.” Alastor hedges, in truth quite content to sip his coffee and nothing more, since this batch seems to be as delicious as that first coffee he remembers sampling in Lucifer’s quarters.

“Cause I could go for a snack...” Lucifer goes on blithely.

“Don’t let me stop you.”

Lucifer gets up, somehow flouncy in Alastor’s crimson shirt, and pads to the large yellow refrigerator.

“Hmmm, let me see what I have lying around… haven’t really restocked much since I moved in with Charlie… oh, prosciutto – nice!” He rummages around. “Goat cheese… olives? Nah, not in the mood for olives this early…”

A plate floats up to Lucifer from a kitchen cabinet and lands on his outstretched palm. He arranges the strips of prosciutto across the plate with magic, and adds said goat cheese as well – it seems to be a softer, crumblier kind, something that, were he still alive, Alastor would have probably enjoyed scooping up with a crispy crust of freshly baked bread.

The plate floats to the table and lands in the middle.

Taking that as invitation enough, Alastor plucks out a piece of meat and pops it in his mouth. It’s savory, lightly smoky – and entirely delicious.

He makes an appreciative noise in his mouth. “Got any more of this?”

Lucifer turns around and gives him an amused, half-petulant look. “What, are you expecting a full charcuterie board over here?”

“I mean, since you’re already offering…”

“You’re frickin’ unbelievable… fine. Let me see what I can find.”

Lucifer putters around the kitchen, opening various cabinets manually and inspecting their contents, as if he hadn’t inventoried them in a while. On a round wooden board, Lucifer assembles an assortment of foods – walnuts, raisins, half a baguette that looks to be freshly baked despite not seeing the oven at all, a cracked open pomegranate and an additional kind of cheese, this one a much drier, firmer kind.

Unlike the last time, Lucifer brings it to the table himself.

Plates and cutlery float up from their respective cabinets and drawers, and arrange themselves neatly in front of their seats. Black napkins with a gold trim complete the impromptu ensemble.

“Hm…” Lucifer looks ponderously at the table. “Now I kind of want to have a glass of wine…”

“For breakfast?” Alastor deadpans.

Lucifer’s cheeks color. “That’s what pairs well with the meal, what do you want me to say?”

Alastor wasn’t really a wine kind of guy. Both the flavor and the alcohol content left much to be desired.

“Your refrigerator is mostly empty, but you have wine lying around?”

Lucifer looks like he wants to implode, so petulant and silly. “I have a wine cellar, so? Fucking sue me!”

“Rich people problems…” Alastor mutters, uncaring if Lucifer hears him.

“Do you want wine or not, asshole?”

“I dislike sweet drinks.”

“Wine doesn’t have to be sweet.” Lucifer points out, mildly outraged. “I could find you an excellent dry wine that pairs well with this.”

Alastor wants to say no, but…when will he next have the opportunity to pilfer alcohol from Lucifer’s (no doubt extensive) wine cellar?

“Fine.” Alastor accedes. “I put myself in your capable hands.”

Lucifer halts for a moment with a wary little frown, but then perks up. “Great! Give me a sec!”

A swirling gold portal appears and Lucifer flies through it, on literal wings. As if through a watery barrier, Alastor can hear him talking to himself on the other side. “Dry….dry… a nice Cabernet Sauvignon? Hmm… no… nope… don’t like you.” The portal is angled in such a way that Alastor can’t really peer into it from his vantage point, so he doesn’t even bother and takes another sliver of prosciutto. “Merlot? Hmm… nah, we’re not having steak… moooooving on…”

Truthfully, Alastor doesn’t need to be able to see Lucifer to know exactly the kind of ridiculous face he’s probably making as he peruses what is essentially a grown man’s toy collection.

“Pinot Noir might be nice…” Lucifer mutters from the other side of the portal. “Oooof, nope. When did this one turn to vinegar? Fuck.”

Alastor chuckles quietly and takes another sip of his coffee, savoring how truly exceptional it is. It’s such a waste to mix the taste with anything else.

“Shiraz, baby! That’s what I’m talking about!” Lucifer exclaims jubilantly. “Yeah… I think we’ve got a winner!”

Alastor laughs, lips touching the rim of his coffee cup. So it’s not all a façade – Lucifer is actually that ridiculous, even in private.

Lucifer flies out of the portal with a black bottle and a pair of sparkling clean wine glasses.

Alastor glances at the clock on the wall and notes it’s barely seven in the morning, and here they are, about to start drinking. They were almost worse than Husker.

Lucifer lands gracefully and his wings fold away and out of sight. Pity, the sight was pleasing with Lucifer’s current choice of vestments…

With a happy little hum, Lucifer places the glasses on the table, uncorks the bottle with a literal thought, and pours a modest amount.

“There you go,” Lucifer says with a smile and slides the glass his way.

Alastor makes no comment, mildly distracted by Lucifer’s bare shoulder. There’s warm blood pulsing underneath that fair skin… He swallows precipitously, and ignores the tangle of revulsion in his gut.

“Thank you.” Alastor says and picks up his glass to sniff at it, just to give himself a distraction.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving!” Lucifer says enthusiastically and starts piling his plate with a little bit of everything. The hard cheese slices itself into slivers and Lucifer picks up a few, most ending up on the plate, save one, which he pops into his mouth and outright moans.

Lucifer tucks into his meal like a child diving into a delicious dessert, appreciative and bubbly, eyes alight in pleasure. As his fingers tear into the crisp, crackly crust of the baguette, Alastor cannot help but stare. Lucifer seems so happy like this, sharing breakfast with him, savoring each bite like it’s the best thing he’s ever had.

Best thing he’s ever had…

Alastor looks away and decides to partake in the meal. He tears off a piece of bread and scoops out some of the goat cheese. The tender, smooth texture of the cheese is contrasted by the baked crust and is every bit as lovely as he imagined it might be.

Lucifer gives him a peculiar, avid look.

“What?” Alastor asks, reaching for another scrap of cured meat. “Is there something on my face?”

“No,” Lucifer says wryly as he chews on a walnut. “I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat anything other than meat.”

“It’s a matter of preference, nothing more.” Alastor says simply.

Lucifer finally picks up his glass and takes a little sip. “Mmmm, yes. I think this was the right call.”

Alastor reaches for his glass as well, but Lucifer stays his hand.

“Have some sheep cheese first.” He says with a gleam in his eyes and picks up a sliver of cheese, extending it towards Alastor’s mouth. “Trust me.”

 On impulse Alastor leans in and opens his mouth, gratified to see Lucifer getting flustered as Alastor accepts the morsel, tongue-first. Alastor savors the rich, salty aroma for a moment, the flaky cheese slowly melting in his mouth and filling it with flavor. Lucifer withdraws his hand.

Alastor can’t resist a little jab. “Are we hand-feeding each other now?”

“Oh, shut up.” Lucifer says without much heat. “Just try the damned wine.”

“Yes, sire.” Alastor mocks him lightly and picks up his so far untouched glass.

As he takes a careful sip, the dark, tantalizing, and pleasantly acidic aroma fills his mouth. It tastes vaguely like smoke and a hint of vanilla, but without any of the grating sweetness he prefers to avoid. It’s rich and heady, and every bit as suitable as advertized.

“What do you think?” Lucifer asks, picking up a few raisins in his fingertips.

“Better than expected, truth be told.” Alastor finds he cannot lie.

“Hah!” Lucifer exclaims. “It’s good to be right.”

“No need to be so smug about it,” Alastor says haughtily as he pops another piece of prosciutto into his mouth, left hand holding the wine aloft, elbow propped up on the table.

Lucifer snickers but leaves him be.

They slowly empty the board and the plates, when Lucifer sighs happily.

“You know what would be great right now?” And without waiting for an answer, he responds immediately. “Music.”

“I don’t see a radio in here.” Alastor notes.

“You could conjure one, couldn’t you?” Lucifer observes; eyes keen and sparkling with amusement.

“I could…” ‘but I won’t’, he wants to say, as it would be absolutely hilarious to see the consternation on Lucifer’s face. He refrains, if only barely. “What would you like me to put on?”

“Oh, one of Paganini’s guitar pieces!”

“Paganini?” Alastor says, confounded. “Wasn’t he a violinist?”

Lucifer laughs in delight and takes another sip of his wine. “Oh, he was much more than a violinist. He was a guitarist, played the mandolin… he was extremely talented. But yes, widely regarded as possibly the best violinist of all time. Did you know he had to perform barefoot so people could see he didn’t have cloven feet? They thought he was the literal devil!”

“Was he one of the mortals you visited?”

“Oh, heavens no,” Lucifer waves his hand dismissively, movement sharp and decisive. “He didn’t need me. Didn’t need either demonic or divine assistance to be absolutely brilliant – he was just that good.”

“It sounds as though you admire him.”

“Of course I do! One lifetime to accomplish so much, play with such skill in a frail corporeal form… a true master of his craft. If I were human, I would probably be trash compared to him.”

But you’re not, Alastor almost blurts out. Not trash. And definitely not human, either.

With an elaborate flourish of his hand and accompanying crackle of neon green symbols, a classic Philco cathedral radio materializes on the table.

“Can you even find music you’re not familiar with?” Lucifer asks, seemingly genuinely interested.

“I can tune into the radio frequencies, but if I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, it will take a long time to find it, especially in this modern age – the signals are oversaturated.”

“I could try to help?” Lucifer offers. “I might need to…tap into your powers a little bit?”

Alastor grimaces. “Tap into them how, exactly?”

“I’m guessing your…staff is how you control the radio?”

“Not exclusively…but it is a better conduit, yes.”

“I might need to… put my hand on it.”

“If you’re expecting me to hand it over–“

“No, no, no,” Lucifer says decisively, “You have to hold it yourself, I will just also put my hand on it until I work out how to find the correct frequency, if that’s alright?”

Alastor narrows his eyes. Why does Lucifer suddenly want to get a feel for his powers?

“I can’t hijack your powers, you paranoid ass.” Lucifer rolls his eyes and eats another piece of cheese. “I just want to help you find it faster since you have no idea what it’s supposed to sound like.”

“And you do?” Alastor asks, still suspicious.

Lucifer looks at him flatly, visibly insulted. “For your information, I remember every piece of music I have ever heard. In perfect detail.”

No wonder he’s a good musician, Alastor thinks to himself.

“Oh, fine – the things I do to be a good guest…” And his staff materializes in his right hand. Alastor sets it upright on the ground and observes Lucifer for any funny moves. Well, funny in a non-literal sense, because most of Lucifer’s facial expressions fall on a sliding scale from mildly silly to utterly, mortifyingly ridiculous. Unless he was angry… that also had a scale all of its own, one Alastor didn’t really enjoy contemplating.

Lucifer’s slender black fingers grasp the staff not two inches above where Alastor is holding it. His eyes flutter shut and he makes a vaguely musical noise in his throat. Alastor observes him like a hawk, but has no idea what Lucifer is actually doing – as he can’t feel any difference save for Lucifer’s unnerving proximity.

“What are you even doing?” Alastor inquires.

“Shhhh.” Lucifer chides. “Trying to find your frequency.”

“My frequency?” Alastor asks, one of his eyebrows quirking all the way up. 

Lucifer’s eyes snap open, and his face betrays irritation. “Yes. All magic has a frequency. Everything in existence possesses an energetic resonance. A hum. A vibration. A frequency. And I’m trying to get a feel for yours, so shut up and let me focus.”

 “Hm.” Alastor huffs but acquiesces. He still cannot feel what Lucifer is doing at all. His mind drifts into the music that’s inextricably woven into the fabric of his being – the sound waves varied and overlapping, flowing one into the other, seamless and ceaseless like a vast, ever-changing ocean.

And in that soothing cacophony, he can hear a voice – a strangely clear voice, singing a melody he’s unfamiliar with. The closer he listens, the clearer it gets, as if calling out to him from a great distance. Out of sheer curiosity, he reaches out and the voice is curiously overlaid over the sounds of a violin and guitar, a curious yet complimentary duet. The tune is languid, like a warm summer night in Spain. Alastor has no idea where that thought even came from, as he’s never set foot in Spain.

He focuses on the melody, and the voice, and searches the frequencies, filtering out the noise of modernity – blaring vehicles and synthetic music, seeking purity of sound – the gently weeping strings that are now so clear in his mind. Without the crackle, it echoes in his mind and he realizes, at last, that it’s Lucifer he’s hearing.

Can he… hear Lucifer’s thoughts?

More importantly, can Lucifer hear his?

With the added incentive, Alastor hunts down an Italian radio frequency, somewhere in the vicinity of Naples, where the piece is playing and taps into it with a whisper. The radio on Lucifer’s kitchen table crackles to life and spills forth the requested melody .

With a gasp, Alastor opens his eyes. Lucifer shivers in front of him and takes his hand off of Alastor’s staff as fast as he’s able. Alastor stores it away, discomfited by the idea that Lucifer may have seen something in the fabric of his being that he shouldn’t have. 

And the worst of all – Alastor has no idea what that something could have been.

“That’s a pretty beautiful power,” Lucifer says mildly, reaching for the pomegranate.

Alastor frowns. What does Lucifer mean by that?

“Having endless music at your disposal, being able to hear all of humanity on the radio waves… That’s special.”

Was that supposed to be a compliment? Because Alastor can’t think of a damned thing to say in response.

“You have a music collection you said.” Alastor grasps for something to say, wondering why he would bother trying to continue this conversation at all.

“Yeah. I have to barter for it. Outright create it from memory. I can’t just… snap my fingers and hear what humanity is up to at any given moment.” Lucifer says, as if he’s actually envious. A pomegranate seed crunches in his white teeth. “So yes. It’s a beautiful power to have.”

“I…was pleased to discover it.” Alastor admits, retreating onto his glass of wine. Why is he revealing anything to Lucifer?

Lucifer gives him a strange look, something wistful and warm in his otherwise inscrutable expression.

“Every soul has its own power. I find it wonderful that even in this dank pit, the gifts bestowed still shine through.” Lucifer says softly and takes a sip of his own wine.

Compelled, Alastor extends his glass towards Lucifer. “To music.”

Lucifer laughs in delight and happily clinks his glass against Alastor’s. “To music!”

Alastor finds the melody both soothing and somehow melancholy, something passionate yet subdued in the gently plucked chords. The melody stands slightly at odds with the warm spring morning beyond the windows, but it’s lovely all the same.

Lucifer floats a pomegranate seed across the table, leaving it hovering in the air at Alastor’s mouth level, a few inches away.

“You haven’t had any yet,” Lucifer says in a strangely intense tone, his explanation leaving much to be desired.

Alastor has no idea what Lucifer is thinking, but a pomegranate seed is just as likely to kill him as anything else he’s ingested this morning, so he opens his mouth and allows it entry. It lands gently upon his tongue. Alastor snaps his mouth closed and cracks the jewel flesh open between his teeth. The burst of flavor is intense yet unsubstantial enough to fade quickly. 

Lucifer gives him a peculiar, almost self-satisfied smirk. “Now you’re trapped here.” He says smoothly, polishing off the last of the goat cheese.

Trapped? Alastor was already trapped in hell. It wasn’t the location that was the problem, but rather the pesky matter of not being actually free.

“I don’t follow,” Alastor says and nabs the last bit of prosciutto so Lucifer can’t get it.

“Oh, you know,” Lucifer says dismissively, washing his mouth out with a gulp of wine. “Greek mythology? The Underworld?”

“Not part of the curriculum where I was from, sorry to say.”

Lucifer looks at him in genuine surprise. “What, you’ve never heard of the myth of Hades and Persephone?”

“Can’t say that I have. Hades ruled the Underworld, didn’t he? Aside from that, I really wouldn’t know.”

“Yes, he did!” Lucifer says animatedly. “His sucky brothers, Zeus and Poseidon got the fun domains, the oceans and the earth while Hades was essentially forced to eternally take care of all the mortals his godly brethren just loooooved murdering in pointless squabbles and wars.”

“Sounds tedious,” Alastor notes, draining the last of his wine.

“I know, right?” Lucifer agrees enthusiastically. “So, Hades was a really grumpy guy, who could blame him, and then Zeus, the horn dog that he was, decided it would be a great idea to kidnap the goddess of Spring, Persephone, and just hand her over to Hades to pacify him – what a dick, right?”

“Absolutely,” Alastor agrees mindlessly, wondering what was it about his countenance that invited Lucifer dumping such spurious information on him. First it was Satie’s entire life story and now this?

“So yeah, Persephone, poor thing, what was she to do? Trapped down there, not like you can bring spring to what’s essentially Hell, right? No sunlight to grow plants with! Seeing how miserable she was, Hades agreed to let her go…” Lucifer explains, eyes alight. “Though, there was a snag in that plan – you see, in her captivity, she had eaten a pomegranate seed to try and sate her hunger, which meant she had partaken of the food in the underground realm – forcing her to stay there a part of the year.”

“Let me guess, that’s how the ancient Greeks explained the seasons?”

“Yes!” Lucifer exclaims happily, pouring them both more wine.

Alastor hasn’t asked for it, but knows he can always simply toss it later if he chooses. Even if it makes Lucifer cry. Perhaps even TO make him cry.

“So she had to stay with her husband for three months of the year, and the rest of it she was free to go.”

“Winter-time was when she was underground?”

“Exactly. Probably because her mother Demeter, the goddess of the seasons, was PISSED as hell. Can’t blame her. If anyone kidnapped Charlie to marry her off to some random asshole, I would do far worse…” Lucifer’s eyes flash crimson and gold, horns sprouting from his head in vicious promise of ungodly retribution to anyone who dared touch his daughter.

Good thing Alastor had no plans of that variety. She could merrily abscond into the sunset with her fallen angelic lady friend, far as he was concerned.

Lucifer looks… improved like this. Crimson eyes and horns compliment his current choice of attire…

“What?” Lucifer asks, holding his wine glass daintily.

“Nothing?” Alastor says with a nonchalant shrug.

“Oh, that look?” Lucifer grins at him. “That’s not nothing…”

“You’re reading into things.” Alastor says airily and takes a sip of his wine. It’s almost as pleasant without the food.

“I don’t think so.” Lucifer’s smirk is infuriating and too observant by far. “What did you say again – that it depended on the taste?”

Alastor is uncomfortably reminded of both the coffee and the feel of Lucifer’s lips against his.

“So… wine or coffee?” Lucifer asks, turning towards him, that damnable shirt sliding further down his exposed shoulder. “Pick one.”

Alastor pretends to be obtuse. “Pick one? What for, exactly?”

Lucifer laughs and gets up off his chair, walks that one scant step to Alastor’s, and like the audaciously fearless thing he is, straddles Alastor’s thighs, taking a seat there like he has a right to it, somehow.

“You know exactly what for.” Lucifer murmurs, words laden with meaning and a promise that sends a chilling little thrill down Alastor’s spine.

He’s expected to answer. To pick one or the other, and submit himself to Lucifer’s infuriatingly knowing smile. Lucifer’s bared skin is scalding against Alastor’s thighs, his breath fragrant and dark like the wine he’d been drinking not a minute prior.

He should push him off. Remind him that touch was off limits – that he was off limits.

Instead, Alastor’s bared hands slide along the outer side of Lucifer’s pristine white thighs and he simply stares at his lap (unresponsive), yet still pleasant to look upon with Lucifer perched there wearing nothing but his shirt, like a mark of ownership. When he looks up, Lucifer is staring at his mouth with half-lidded eyes, still crimson and molten gold. Somewhere in his periphery, he can see Lucifer’s lightly barbed tail, softly swishing behind him.

Wine will have to do, Alastor reconciles in his mind, before obliterating the distance between them and claiming Lucifer’s lips for his own. The insolent angel in his lap moves against him in a most maddening squirming motion, the warm gust of breath punched out of him as Alastor licks at the seam of his lips, seeking that promised taste. Lucifer outright moans when their tongues meet in the middle, its forked length twining around Alastor’s own, slickened and wet. The dark taste helps, filling Alastor’s senses with heat instead of the cold prickle at the back of his neck that usually signals revulsion. It’s drowned out by the warmth of Lucifer’s thighs – the moist whisper of his breath – and Alastor seeks more, savoring the sensation he’s chosen to pursue.

When the kiss breaks, Lucifer’s black pupils are blown.

“Good?” Alastor asks, only because he’s already certain of the answer he’s going to receive.

“Yeah,” Lucifer admits, breathless.

“More?” Alastor asks, wanting to see the moment Lucifer breaks and outright asks him for it.

“Yes.” Lucifer whispers. It’s certainly desirous, but not quite desperate enough for Alastor’s liking.

“What’s the magic word?” Alastor grins unrepentantly, coaxing Lucifer into saying what he wants.

Lucifer huffs. “You’re fucking UN-believable.”

“It’s your choice.” Alastor reminds him, hands questing further up along Lucifer’s hips.

“Fine… please?” Lucifer says, aiming to be sarcastic and teasing, but it misses the mark – if only barely.

“You look pretty when you beg.” Alastor states without inflection and pulls Lucifer to himself once more.

This time around, the kiss is more heated – rushed and almost desperate – Lucifer placing his hands on Alastor’s shoulders and squeezing, the touch of his fingers burning through the fabric like a sizzling brand. It would be so easy to nick Lucifer’s tongue or his lips, to feel the pleasurable tang of his perfect blood, but Alastor’s guts churn at the thought – with desire or revulsion, he cannot tell. Before he can give in to the ill-fated impulse, he tears his mouth away.

Lucifer grinds against his lap, almost as an afterthought, his eyes clouded over with undisguised want.

Alastor tries to breathe, to gather himself, and his eyes burn as he observes Lucifer’s bared shoulder, bone-white and tempting, as exposed as a gap between plates of armor. His teeth itch at the sight, and his stomach clenches.

Lucifer’s gaze clears and he regards Alastor with scrutiny.

“Do you still feel it?”

“Feel what?” Alastor asks, tearing his eyes away from Lucifer’s invitingly exposed neck.

“The pull of my blood.” Lucifer asks, seemingly without judgment.

“No,” Alastor says decisively.

Lucifer looks at him mildly. Whether out of compassion or pity, it’s humiliating all the same.

“You’re lying.”

Alastor swallows, lost in Lucifer’s crimson eyes, black pupils contrasting against the vivid gold of his irises.

Irises the color of spilled angelic blood.

“I feel it.” Alastor admits. “I thought it went away after…”

“Hey,” Lucifer soothes him, settling against his lap. “It’s okay.”

“Doesn’t feel that way.” Alastor shudders, disgusted by the need he still feels, despite the potent revulsion trying to crawl up his throat.

“If you let me, I will try to pull it out of you.”

“And what must I give you in return?” Alastor asks, fearing he is rapidly running out of things to give.

“Nothing.” Lucifer says gently, giving his shoulders a reassuring caress. “It’s my fault you’re this way. It’s only right I do my best to fix it.”

“I would deserve it.” Alastor says, uncharacteristically honest. He feels raw, like a flayed-open wound left unprotected against the elements.

“I am not in the habit of enjoying other people’s pain.” Lucifer reminds him, gentle to a fault.

“I am.” Alastor says, voice cracking like that glass Lucifer shattered against his fireplace.

“Well, I’m not you, am I?” Lucifer smiles, a wry and wretched little thing that curls at the corner of his well-kissed lips.

“You don’t resent me?” Alastor asks, fingers curling around Lucifer’s supple thighs.

Lucifer chuckles faintly. “What would be the point of that? You can’t possibly disappoint me any more than you already have.”

The statement isn’t intended to wound, it’s not a barb or a jibe, but it finds its mark unerringly nonetheless, like a piece of shrapnel flying out of an explosion, sliding between Alastor’s ribs to burrow into his vulnerable insides. He has disappointed Lucifer. That shouldn’t matter, he tries telling himself, as Lucifer is nothing to him.

It shouldn’t matter at all.

But the fact that there were expectations there he could have failed to meet – that he has failed to meet… Why?

Why did Lucifer expect anything in the first place?

“Will you let me heal you – of the compulsion, at least? I don’t know if it will stop you from craving more, but it should clear out anything remaining in your system.”

Alastor doesn’t deserve it.

But he isn’t in the habit of missing opportunities when they present themselves to him, either.

“Alright.”

Lucifer nods minutely in acknowledgment. “Look, it might hurt, just like last time. This time, there’s no convenient exit wound for me to use, so I will have to get creative.”

“That…doesn’t sound reassuring.” Alastor ventures. “What, are you going to cut me open?”

“What-why would I do that?”

“Then define what you mean by ‘creative’.”

“I think our best bet is…your tear ducts.”

“My tear ducts?” Alastor asks skeptically, despite admittedly having no clue as to how pulling toxic substances from demonic bodies works.

“Well, my only other option is your salivary glands, which… is suboptimal. You’d just swallow it all back up and then we’re back to square one.”

Alastor shifts in discomfort. “Fine.” If it has to be done, it would be better to do it as quickly as possible.

 “I’ll have to touch your bare skin again.” Lucifer warns him, superfluously. Alastor already knows.

“Just get it over with.”

Lucifer nods and takes a deep breath, then cradles Alastor’s face in the palms of his hands. Alastor watches Lucifer close his eyes and calm his breathing. Lucifer gently rocks back and forth in his lap and starts murmuring below his breath: “Everything must go to whence it came – all dust shall become earth again – all water shall return as rain – from every cinder rise a flame – all must go to whence it came – all must go to whence it came…”

As Lucifer chants, Alastor feels something burning inside him, the tiniest of pinpricks traveling across his flesh, from the tips of his hooves to the roots of his hair, coalescing somewhere beyond his itching eyelids.

“Let them fall, Alastor.” Lucifer says with his eyes still closed. “I won’t look.”

Alastor doesn’t know whether he is capable of crying on demand, but it happens nonetheless, the burning in his eyes unbearable as moisture gathers in the corners and spills out. It burns on the way out, almost as if he’s crying molten lava and he gasps, a pained whimper torn out of his throat.

“All must go to whence it came.” Lucifer says softly, and the unbearable burning subsides as Alastor’s eyes dispel the dregs of Lucifer’s blood that were still lodged in his body. It feels as if his eyes are full of sand, grinding against his retinas. His breath hitches as he cries, blinking the golden dust out of his eyes.

It doesn’t take long, and soon his tears run smooth again. He blinks furiously to clear his vision. True to his word, Lucifer’s eyes are still closed.

Alastor removes his hands from Lucifer’s legs and notices that he’s left livid bruises behind, accompanied with angry red lines that failed to break skin, if only barely. Unthinkingly, he injured Lucifer again, and the angel didn’t utter a single noise of complaint.

Alastor slowly removes Lucifer’s hands form his face and wipes at his cheeks. His palms come away covered in fine golden dust. Lucifer’s eyes open at last and Alastor assumes he’ll finally see some anger in them for the injury caused, but Lucifer just smiles instead and looks at the golden dust curiously. With a swirl of black fingers, the dust flows into the palm of Lucifer’s hand, where it coalesces and sinks into the skin, completely gone.

“That seems promising… How do you feel?”

Awful, Alastor wants to say.

“I don’t know.” Comes out instead.

“Well… do you still want to take a bite out of me?” Lucifer asks wryly, the joke entirely in poor taste, in Alastor’s humble opinion.

How is he supposed to know what was compulsion borne of addiction, and how much of it was balanced out with the shock he had received by being made into a murder weapon against his will?

How could he possibly tell at this point?

“I…I don’t know.” He says in a small voice.

Lucifer breathes in and then exhales slowly, deep in thought.

“Well, if the blood had the properties of an aphrodisiac, as I suspect, any desire you ever felt for me should be completely gone, for starters.”

“My desire is nearly nonexistent as is.” Alastor points out.

“I know, don’t worry.” Lucifer says calmly.

“Any other…parameters?” Alastor asks.

Lucifer halts, thinking about it. His horns retreat and his eyes go back to normal. Only his tail remains, swishing restlessly behind him. “Well, what usually goes through your head when the blood calls to you? And what triggers the thoughts?”

The very sight of your bared skin. Your neck. Your exposed shoulder. Your thighs.

Your accursed mouth.

“I just…want to tear you open.” Alastor says blandly.

“Ok,” Lucifer says unperturbed. “Do you still feel the urge to do that?”

“I would need to be closer to check.” Alastor shrugs.

“I see,” Lucifer says simply, but Alastor doesn’t miss the subtle shiver that traverses Lucifer’s frame. “Come closer, then.”

Alastor would like to point out the fact that they couldn’t possibly get much closer than this, what with Lucifer sitting in his lap, but he refrains as he presumes it wouldn’t be appreciated at this juncture. Haltingly, he brings his face closer to Lucifer’s exposed left shoulder and inhales. This would usually be the point where the thrum of blood was almost unbearable.

He can still hear it – the frantic beating of Lucifer’s heart behind the flimsy barrier of his skin.

He can still taste it in his mouth – the power of creation.

He still craves it, but the thought of it filling his mouth makes him want to gag.

The compulsion, such as it was, seems only marginally eased by Lucifer having expelled everything that was left – as Alastor watches the expanse of alabaster skin before him, Lucifer having tilted his face away from Alastor to present a more tempting target. It’s still calling to him, as awfully as before, and Alastor trembles as he buries his nose into the silky soft skin.

He doesn’t want to tear it open, but his tongue flickers out and tastes the skin, almost as if wishing blood from underneath could transfer by osmosis.  Instead of his teeth, it’s his lips that itch now, and he shudders against Lucifer’s shoulder before coming to rest against it, half-open lips pressed against the smooth skin. It’s not a kiss, as he doesn’t move. Alastor simply breathes in and out, the scent of apple blossoms colliding with the aroma of cherry blossoms and wine.

None of it feels gone.

Lucifer said any desire should be wiped from his mind – and sure as death, he is still not physically aroused in the least, but…

That means so little when all he wants is to stay right where he is, Lucifer clad in his garments, trembling lightly in his lap as the breeze from beyond the open window blows illusionary cherry petals around them.

“Do you…still want my blood?”

Alastor flips a coin and it lands on: “No.”

He cannot even tell whether it’s a lie or not anymore.

In his arms, Lucifer swallows a whine. “Do you still want… this?”

Alastor groans against Lucifer’s shoulder, his hips rocking upwards mindlessly.

“We…have a deal.” Alastor murmurs against Lucifer’s skin, lips ghosting over the join of his neck and his pale shoulder. “If you are lonely…I will entertain you.”

Lucifer pants softly and moves away, seeking his gaze.

Alastor has no idea what Lucifer finds there.

“There’s no point to any of this unless you also want it. Deal or no deal, I would never force you.”

Alastor feels like a fish dragged mercilessly ashore, lungs burning helplessly as he grasps for anything to say, or the oxygen needed to allow him to scream, but no words come and it only hurts instead. Why is Lucifer forcing him to say it? The three truths have been spent for today, and Alastor should be comforted by the fact he can lie – the only problem is – he has no idea what the truth is anymore.

“I’m not sure…how to tell whether I still…want you. We might need to… experiment.”

Lucifer expels an incredulous laugh.

 “Are you… propositioning me right now?”

“I suppose I am,” Alastor says with more self-assurance than he actually feels. “Surely there’s a bedroom you sleep in around here?”

 “Yeah–” Lucifer drawls. “I'm not gonna fuck you on my marital bed – no thanks.” Then he gets a horrified look on his face – “Or Charlie’s bed for that matter! Or Lilith’s…” Lucifer shudders in revulsion.

“You slept apart?” Alastor tilts his head in curiosity.

Lucifer snorts. “Duh. She had her own separate wing to stay as faaaar away from me as possible the last few centuries…”

“Fine, no beds.” Alastor acquiesces, more than happy to stop digging into the matter of Lilith. “Any couches you wouldn't mind despoiling, then?”

Lucifer looks at him once more, beaming a thrilled, toothy smile his way. “Why, would you like to ruin more of them?”

“Let’s start with one you won’t miss and go from there?” Alastor suggests.

Lucifer starts laughing, loud and clear and beautiful, and Alastor’s heart stutters in his chest.

The compulsion is alive and well, but he doesn’t want to tell Lucifer that.

Grinning from ear to ear, Lucifer hops off him and gives him a coy look.

“Come with me.”

Anywhere, Alastor thinks.

I would follow you anywhere.

Chapter Text

Lucifer pads through the labyrinthine, grand corridors of his palace, his slender demonic tail swishing behind him playfully, occasionally looking back at Alastor with an unrepentantly smug grin. Alastor snatches the tail end of his shirt to leash Lucifer and keep him from disappearing on him again.

It earns him a bubbling laugh.

They pass countless closed doors, the palace awfully, eerily quiet but clean and dust-free, like there’s an army of invisible maids keeping it spotless.

“Where is your staff?” He asks Lucifer, hoping they won’t be waylaid by a stray butler, as that would be embarrassing.

“My staff?” Lucifer summons his apple cane and twirls it around.

“Not that staff, you fool.” Alastor rolls his eyes. “Your servants. We might accidentally give them an eyeful.”

“Oh.” Lucifer banishes the staff from whence it came. “Don’t have any.”

“What do you mean, you don’t have any?” Alastor asks, incredulous. “Who cleans this sprawling edifice, then?”

Lucifer looks at him like he’s gone stark raving mad.

“What do you mean, who cleans it? I do. My magic keeps the whole thing together.”

“How much spare power do you have?” Alastor wonders aloud.

“Hmm,” Lucifer ponders the question seriously. “Enough to control the weather most of the time? I hate the fucking acid rain, so I usually just banish it whenever it threatens to accumulate into brimstone clouds and fuck up the shit in the Ring.”

Alastor stops dead in his tracks.

The night he nearly killed him…

There was a storm. It rained – it poured.

All because Lucifer was out of commission.

“You…keep the skies clear?”

“Yeah, well… most of the time, I guess. I would hate living in a place where the streets and buildings just randomly melt, so…”

Lucifer keeps the weather under control…for the sinners who mock him and think he’s useless.

Alastor feels the uncomfortable pull against his stitches.

Ungrateful, oblivious wretches – enjoying the spoils of their benevolent ruler without offering anything in return – how despicable.

Lucifer starts moving again and Alastor follows, feeling strangely numb. He stares at the back of Lucifer’s blonde head and wonders what else he doesn’t know about the man. What else has been made by him, something humming along in the background of Hell that is his doing, all without anyone knowing.

Lucifer leads him around the corner and opens the door to a grand room, giving Alastor a mischievously proud look, as if he expects his choice of room (or the couch contained within it) to be appreciated. Alastor stops in the doorway for a moment, trying to take it all in as his hand slips away from the shirt he’s been clutching.

From floor to ceiling, there are shelves, and the ceiling itself is vaulted, with a gothic-looking ribbed pattern, and is at least twenty feet high. He is startled to realize that all of the shelves are full to bursting with… records. Vinyl records, and discs, and endless bound volumes of what cannot be books, but are the perfect size to be… sheet music.

In display cabinets around the room is an array of instruments, string, wind, anything one could imagine. Enough for a full orchestra, probably. He even spies instruments he has never seen before, and can only assume are either ancient, or come from a culture he’s unfamiliar with.

And in the middle of the room is a creamy and gold fainting couch, all smooth lines, the backrest facing a large concert piano, carved out of some kind of lustrous wood – mahogany, perhaps? The entire side of the piano depicts a scene of a dying swan in a field of reeds, surrounded by blossoming lilies.

Ugh. A gift from his dearly departed wife, perhaps? How perfectly sinister…

The massive window spills purplish-crimson twilight into the room – another enchanted vista, this time only showing the sky.  The room is…spectacular. Grand but not overbearing or overly ostentatious despite the size and the contents. It’s elegant but doesn’t scream luxury, despite the priceless artifacts on display.

“Do you play the piano too?” Alastor asks, trying to focus on something he actually feels qualified to talk about.

Lucifer gives him a complicated look. “Not that much, to be honest. Charlie did, though. She’s significantly more proficient than I am by now.”

“I am surprised the piano isn’t white.” Alastor needles him, unsure as to why.

Lucifer laughs, eyebrows quirking up towards his hairline. "Do I look like Elton John to you?"

"Elton...who?"

Lucifer laughs uproariously at that, so much so that it necessitates wiping an errant tear away. “You’re such a–“ Lucifer wheezes, “– fucking riot, sometimes!”

Alastor gets a distinct impression Lucifer won’t tell him who that person is, if only to spite him.

Lucifer heads to the Victorian-style fainting couch, his bare feet padding across a beautiful white rug and takes a seat. The crimson and black of Alastor’s shirt stands out against the cream-gold fabric of the couch. The warm wooden frame compliments the mahogany of the piano, and bears a similar carved swan motif. Why does Lucifer want to wreck this particular couch? Surely there are others he cares less about?

Lucifer is looking at him keenly, like he can’t figure him out. On a whim, Alastor sits at the piano and pops the lid open. He caresses the keys, as smooth and immaculate as the day the piano left the manufacturer. The instrument is a work of art, both inside and out, everything from the pedals to the music rack is carved and beautiful. His fingers fly over the keys – a scale with some arpeggios, just to warm up. He isn’t rusty, exactly, but one should never ignore the basics.

“Want me to play something?” Alastor asks and casts a glance at Lucifer, who is watching him attentively from the dainty fainting couch.

“Weren’t we supposed to be experimenting?” Lucifer points out, amused and only slightly mocking.

Alastor grins slyly at him, head tilted, hands still stroking the ivory keys. “You forget just how many hands I have, your Majesty.”

Before Lucifer can respond or do much of anything else – with nary a thought – Alastor’s shadow appears behind Lucifer on the couch, looming, horned, and grinning from ear to ear. The most Lucifer manages is a graceless little “Ah!” before the shadow hoists him up into its now solid lap, and starts dragging inky black fingers down Lucifer’s pale chest.

“That’s cheating…” Lucifer says petulantly, but it’s a bit too breathlessly spoken to be an actual complaint, so Alastor chooses to ignore it in favor of playing the opening chords to an appropriate Jelly Roll Morton song. Or rather, his rendition of an older song – not that Lucifer would know or care. During the intro, Alastor is pleased to note, Lucifer isn’t trying overly hard to rebuff the advances of his shadow, allowing it to nuzzle against his neck and reach under the waistband of his pinstripe underwear.

 With a smug smile, and a drawl of affectation, Alastor croons out:

“If I was whiskey and you were a duck;
I'd dive to the bottom and I’d never come up.
Oh, how long do I have to wait?
Can I get it now, do I have to hesitate…”

Lucifer is looking at him, something annoyed in his expression that flickers as the shadow caresses one of his thighs, its other hand otherwise occupied in Lucifer’s eyesore of an undergarment. Alastor’s grin widens as he continues:

“I had a woman, she was not tall
She made me think about my parasol
Oh, how long do I have to wait…”

Lucifer looks like he wants to kick him in the shin for the mild dig Alastor managed to put in there, but then smoky black tendrils rise out of the floor and slowly, sensuously coil around Lucifer’s legs, spreading them wider, and he moans, head falling back onto the shadow’s shoulder. Alastor enjoys the muted sensation of touch he can feel transmitted from across the way, knowing that the ivory keys he’s touching are every bit as white as Lucifer’s thighs – except for the bruises he can still see, unhealed like a perfect memento of a crime he doesn’t remember committing. When his tendrils constrict slightly over them, Lucifer hisses, but makes no attempt to banish them.

“An old lady by the name of Jane
I hit and knocked her right off her cane
Oh, how long do I have to wait
Can I get it now do I have to hesitate…”

Lucifer’s eyes are smoldering from the couch, knowing full well that despite the attentions being bestowed by mere shadows, it is Alastor who is dispensing them. With a shudder, Lucifer gasps and snaps his fingers, his underwear dematerializing and landing across the piano’s music rack, right in front of Alastor’s face. He laughs at the blatant provocation before launching into the next verse.

“Mama mama, look at sis
She's out on the levee doin' the double twist
Lord how long do I have to wait
Can I get you now do I have to hesitate…”

Lucifer touches one of the questing tendrils and Alastor can feel a slick sensation coating it. “Better prep me this time,” Lucifer instructs in the small gap between the verses, and Alastor gets the picture. As he sings, he allows said tendril to venture further between Lucifer’s thighs, held apart as Lucifer writhes in his shadow’s lap, inky, not fully substantial hands grasping his length and tugging all the while.

“She said, Come in here you dirty little Sal
You trying to be a bad girl you don't know how;
How long do I have to wait?
Can I get you now do I have to hesitate?”

The moment the tendril breaches the gentle clench of Lucifer’s body, Alastor feels himself stir with interest. The languid roll and then snap of Lucifer’s hips is maddening, as if he knows exactly what it’s doing to Alastor from six feet away. Unlike Alastor, however, his shadow seems fully roused, as he can feel it stirring behind Lucifer, eager to fill him.

“She said, "Touch my bonnet, Touch my shawl
Do not touch my waterfall;
How long do I have to wait
Yes, can I get you now, do I have to hesitate?”

The slide into Lucifer’s eager body may be more muted than it would feel upon his own flesh, but it’s pleasurable all the same, Lucifer having abandoned his glaring some time ago in favor of moaning in a dissolute manner, begging for it in all ways except in words. Out of patience, Alastor’s shadow grasps Lucifer by the hips and avails itself, the slickened tendril sliding out to make way for another, marginally less substantial appendage.

“Tell me baby what you’ve got on your mind
I'm eating and a drinking having a lovely time
How long do I have to wait?”

“F-fuck!” Lucifer gasps from the couch, and Alastor’s thighs clench.

“Can I get you now, do I have to hesitate?”

Alastor plays another verse after having ran out of lyrics to sing, improvising as he goes to buy himself time as he stares greedily at the fascinating play of light and shadow across the cream and gold canvas of a couch that is only minutes away from being utterly ruined – provided he has anything to say on the matter. He is only half-hard, but that is of little importance. His subconscious, long melded with the shadow, is doing what Alastor cannot – driving Lucifer to utter distraction, drawing desperately lewd noises from him. If its infernal grin is any indication, it feels every bit as good as it looks. Alastor can only get indistinct whisperings of sensation, but the view more than makes up for it.

“Come back here,” Lucifer commands from the couch, surprisingly lucid for what’s currently happening to him.

“As my King commands,” Alastor says smoothly and rises from his seat, as slowly as he can manage.

Lucifer’s eyes are burning with desire as he grips the backrest to propel himself forward and get on his knees. The maneuver has no business being so appealing, but it’s the eye contact, Alastor thinks, that makes it work. It’s the look of hunger that transforms a fairly graceless body movement into pure seduction. It doesn’t make Alastor hard, but he feels that look in his gut, where it morphs into languid heat and lingers. Alastor sits down at the other edge of the couch, where there is no backing to lean against and props himself up using his arms instead, pleased to see the frustration creeping into Lucifer’s expression when he realizes he will have to crawl those extra two feet to get to Alastor.

“Please tell me you’re hard?” Lucifer outright whines, appearing quite desperate as Alastor’s shadow grips his hips and drives into him.

“Why?” Alastor asks smugly. “Is my shadow not enough for you?”

Lucifer groans, giving him an irate look. “How much more will I have to stroke your ego before you fuck me?”

Alastor reaches out and caresses Lucifer’s cheek, which makes his monarch flush with embarrassment. “Not much longer…now…answer something for me?”

“What do you want now?” Lucifer cries out in utter frustration, expelling a gasp as Alastor’s shadow snaps its hips once more.

“Tell me…”Alastor drawls in a dark and almost sinister tone. “Do you like it from both sides?”

The shocked widening of Lucifer’s eyes tells Alastor everything he needs to know – Lucifer remembers. He knows exactly which conversation Alastor is referencing, back when he was put in golden chains and threatened with public humiliation. Revenge sure is sweet.

Lucifer’s eyes momentarily glaze over as he bites his lower lip. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.” That last ‘I do’ is delivered straight to his face, Lucifer’s stare incisive and sharp. Alastor feels a whisper of magic and his underwear disappears, rematerializing on the rug in a careless heap and he can’t even bring himself to care – not with the way Lucifer is crawling to him, all deadly grace and fierce determination.

Alastor won’t give him the satisfaction of appearing affected.

And when Lucifer pulls up Alastor’s summoned black tunic, he finds him half-hard.

“Good enough,” Lucifer comments and doesn’t even ask for permission before diving in and caressing his cock with a slick, sinuous tongue. Alastor’s fingers bury in Lucifer’s hair and pull in warning, but instead of serving as a deterrent, it only seems to spur him on. Alastor sucks in a breath and for a moment, locks eyes with his shadow, whose eyes are burning like malevolent embers as its hands claw across Lucifer’s back, careful not to tear either fabric or flesh.

As Lucifer sucks him in, on both sides, Alastor groans helplessly, drowning in the sensation. Everything coalesces into a single overwhelming feeling and it finally happens – induced by Lucifer’s eager mouth and pliant body – Alastor gets hard.

It’s ruthless, beautiful, and terrifying in equal measure. That anyone could have this kind of sway over him, even if said person was leagues more powerful than Alastor is simply too disquieting a prospect to accept. His desire may be conditional and fleeting, but that doesn’t make it any less real – or any less potent.

Nor any less dangerous.

To assuage his terror at least marginally, he keeps a strong grip on Lucifer’s hair. It’s so accursedly soft, just like his mouth – just like his thighs – just like his insides.  Soft enough to get lost in – soft enough to make him lose his composure, his self-control, his mind.

He may be the furthest thing from Persephone, gentle goddess of spring, but the thought of Lucifer as a ruthless ruler of the Underworld, casting away his Queen for him… feels good.

He may be nothing more than a casual lover at this point, but there is still time.

“Stop that.” Alastor says crossly, grasping Lucifer’s shoulder in a warning squeeze.

Lucifer looks up at him in confusion, Alastor’s member slipping free of his spit-slicked, swollen mouth.

“I don’t want you touching yourself,” Alastor states, pointing to Lucifer’s errant hand.

“Why not?” Lucifer asks, disgruntled.

Alastor purrs. “That’s what you have me for.”

And before Lucifer can protest, another tendril joins the previous two, which are still coiling around Lucifer’s smooth thighs, and slithers up his erection – just like that first, memorable time.

“Ah–“ Lucifer moans, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “Al–ah–stor–! Hn–“

"If you’re having difficulties breathing through the whole thing, you can simply shorten my name…"

"Oh, fuck–” Lucifer moans. “–we're doing nicknames now?"

“Aren't we–?“ Alastor asks, head tilted as he sweeps the thumb of his right hand across Lucifer’s fucked-out lips. “–Hades?"

“Shut up and gag me,” Lucifer growls and bites his hand.

On what? Alastor wonders briefly, but Lucifer shows him instead, mouth hot and eager as a serpentine tongue coils around his length. Lucifer takes him in, as deep as he can go when Alastor feels the back of his throat, but Lucifer doesn’t stop there – oh no.

He fucking swallows.

Alastor is too shocked to do anything except groan pitifully, his ears ringing.

“Lucifer!” He hisses, pulling at his hair but keeping him in place.

The ringing in his ears doesn’t stop, however – it gets worse – to the point he can hear a strange tinkling noise. Alastor’s shadow offers an inaudible snarl.

“Wait…” Alastor gasps. “What is that?”

When Lucifer only knits his brow, undeterred, Alastor attempts to push him off in earnest.

“Lucifer, what is that noise?”

Lucifer looks up at him, viciously angry at being interrupted, and pulls away from him, no doubt ready to lambast him, when they both hear it – a persistent chime of tiny, tinkling bells.

In a wrecked voice, Lucifer outright growls. "Not fucking now!!" His gaze snaps up at Alastor and he commands with absolute authority, eyes flashing crimson and gold for a moment. "Vanish your shadow RIGHT NOW." Too stunned to marshal his wits against the compelling tone, Alastor obeys, the shadow outraged to be pulled away from Lucifer and back into the confines of Alastor’s corporeal form.

Still on his knees, but now sitting upright, Lucifer strips out of Alastor's shirt with all haste and no finesse, cursing in frustration. Alastor is honestly surprised the fabric doesn’t rip on the process.  Lucifer snaps his fingers, more irritated than Alastor has ever seen him and his clothes magically appear on him, hat included. He watches Lucifer lick his mouth and groan, the swelling in his lips fading like a mirage. He then looks at Alastor with a vicious glare full of promise. "We're going to finish this later, don't you DARE move.”

Dumbstruck, Alastor can do nothing but nod. “Now stay quiet or I'll fuck you up, got it?” Lucifer gets up, and pats Alastor on the cheek. “Good boy."

Lucifer then stomps off furiously to a gold mirror Alastor didn’t even notice previously, and clears his throat. Before Alastor’s eyes, all the irritation and tension in Lucifer’s body vanishes as he turns picture-perfect chipper, his black fingers caressing the frame.

There’s a sound of heavenly revelation, but Alastor cannot see the person in the mirror, all for the better – as that would mean he too was visible to them as well.

“Heeeeey, Mikey!” Lucifer exclaims, for all intents and purposes sounding as pleased as punch. “Long time no speak – wait, you never call first, usually I call you and then you don't call back for like two months, or decades, hahaha. What's up?”

Is that… Archangel Michael on the other end? He must not be overly impressed with Lucifer’s greeting, if his protracted silence is any indication.

“Hey, you're freaking me out over here, what's going on?” Lucifer asks.

“I believe...you would call this a ‘grade A shitstorm’.” Michael says flatly from inside the mirror.

“Ha ha ha, that's pretty bad, yep.” Lucifer drones on, inanely. “What's up?”

In a voice about as humorous as a death sentence, Michael says:

“Someone has ascended from the pit.”

Alastor can see Lucifer freeze for a moment, shoulders tensing up completely before a stream of nonsense pours from his mouth. “What, ha ha, you mean like escaped and got caught bangin’ away at the pearly gates again? Cause there hasn't been an incident like that since–“

“Not at the gates.” Michael’s stern voice interrupts him. “In Heaven proper. Bypassing ALL procedure. A genuine, bona fide ASCENSION.”

“W- wuh-wuh wawawawa. What.” Lucifer stammers like an idiot. “Who?”

Michael makes a ponderous noise, as if he cannot remember off the top of his head. “…a serpentine fellow, the name escapes me.”

Lucifer gapes, clearly flabbergasted. “Sir Pentious???”

Alastor’s eyes go wide as he sits petrified on the couch.

“Yes, sounds about right. An uptight Victorian fellow.”

“He was...REDEEMED?" Lucifer squeals in delight. "It's possible!! Charlie was RIGHT! HA! Ha ha ha! Take THAT! WOOO HOO!”

“Have you completely lost your mind?” Michael deadpans from the other side.

“Why? He was one of the guests at my daughter's hotel! Her venture to redeem sinners? It works!! It really works!” Lucifer exclaims joyously, doing a little jump and a skip.

“That's not a good thing.” Michael informs him.

“Wh- what do you mean it's not a good thing?? It's WONDERFUL! It's the best damn piece of news I had since I took my baby girl into my arms for the first time!”

“It's not good–” Michael’s flat voice is getting irritated from the other end. “– because your lot KILLED Adam.”

“Hey, don't look at me,” Lucifer says defensively, both hands up in the air. “I went easy on the guy despite him trying to murder my daughter, okay?”

“A faction in Heaven wants WAR. One ascension is entirely irrelevant. They're keeping the news under wraps.”

“Fucking typical.” Lucifer blurts out with simmering resentment.

“Be careful.”

“Yeah, thanks for the heads-u–“ Lucifer says gratefully before his tone falls flat. “–and he's gone. Dipshit.”

Lucifer looks at Alastor who's still frozen on the couch, afraid to breathe.

“It works!” Lucifer says, his face completely transformed in awe. His wings unfurl and he literally flies to the couch, grabs Alastor by the face and kisses him soundly.

It lasts no longer than five seconds, and Alastor feels almost concussed after Lucifer pulls away, looking at him like Alastor is the best damned thing he’s ever seen. “It fucking WORKS!!!” Lucifer exclaims in excitement, eyes full of emotion.

Alastor looks down because he has no idea what to do with the information, as he’s still reeling from the potential ramifications himself.

“You're...still aroused?” Alastor observes, distantly.

Lucifer laughs ecstatically. “This is a VICTORY boner, Al!”

Alastor huffs, perplexed.  Just like Lucifer’s, his own ardor is yet to abate.

Alastor yanks at the lapels of Lucifer’s pristine white tailcoat. “Take your fucking clothes off.”

Lucifer’s lips crash against his and Alastor reciprocates, greedily devouring Lucifer’s mouth without an ounce of hesitation. He can hear the swoosh of magic and when he opens his eyes, Lucifer is completely nude before him. Alastor grasps him by the neck and pulls him down.

“Get over here,” Alastor growls, his left hand grasping blindly for the abandoned crimson fabric. “And put the damned shirt back on.”

“Demanding, aren’t we?” Lucifer grins at him, teasing, even as he snatches the shirt out of Alastor’s hand and sticks his left hand into the overly long sleeve. Too impatient to wait, Alastor helps Lucifer put it on.

“No, don’t button it–” Alastor swats Lucifer’s hands away. “–it’s better this way.”

It’s better because he can run a possessive hand from Lucifer’s exposed neck, across his clavicles and down his sternum, all the way to his groin. Lucifer moans and clambers further onto Alastor’s lap, taking hold of his erection from behind and guiding it where it belongs.

“Nnh–!” Lucifer groans as he sinks onto Alastor and he feels the burn of hot, yielding flesh constricting around him like a vice. “Ah–! This is so much better…”

Alastor’s hips snap up, punching a moan out of Lucifer, who puts his arms around Alastor’s neck to steady himself.

“Better than what?” Alastor asks him, only marginally breathless. “My shadow?”

“Yeah,” Lucifer breathes out, swiveling his hips filthily. “The shadow…is not substantial enough…”

“Is that so?” Alastor babbles, infected (it seems) by Lucifer’s inanity.

Lucifer’s eyes turn crimson, beautiful golden irises cleaved with midnight black stare into his soul as if Alastor is nothing but a stray speck of dust in the wind.

“Your cock is thicker.” Lucifer says easily, as if such profanity comes to him naturally. “Hotter, too.”

“Shut up.” Alastor mutters and does it for him, the kiss abrupt but heated.

When Lucifer pulls away, the glistening string of saliva connecting their mouths snaps.

“You fill me up better.” Lucifer says, voice dark and heated, daring Alastor to respond.

“I told you to shut up, you wretch.” Alastor growls, fingers of his right hand grasping Lucifer’s frail neck in warning, as his left holds him by the hip and he drives into him ruthlessly, Lucifer falling against him in sharp movements that make Alastor’s moorings to reality come undone.

“Hell won over Heaven today,” Alastor remarks, the crackle of static sharp in the air around them.

Lucifer smirks, something in his countenance shifting. "We sure fucking did, didn't we?” He states, as he throws his head back in pleasure, slender crimson horns sprouting from his forehead, and his tail unfurling from behind. “Ungh, harder–“ Lucifer demands. “I want to feel you for a week!"

Who is Alastor to deny him that?

To deny him anything?

He grips Lucifer tight enough to bruise and slams him down hard against his lap, again and again, losing all awareness or track of what noises are spilling out of his own mouth – too spellbound by Lucifer’s for it to matter. Eyes of molten gold stare at him, laying him bare.

“More–“ Lucifer commands, undulating in his lap like he owns him. “–give me more.”

Alastor whines and pulls him in for a kiss.

There is no more he can give – why does Lucifer push for it? Why is Alastor allowing that slender serpent tongue in his mouth, licking against it, moaning into the kiss as if…

As if it actually feels good?

No more, he thinks, desperate. I have nothing left.

There’s no dignity, no finesse left as he bucks up into Lucifer’s descending hips, gasping into his mouth like a dying man. Lucifer’s fingers tangle into his hair, claws scratching against his scalp. Accompanied by a loud burst of static, Alastor’s horns burst out of his head with a snapping of bone and he tears his mouth away.

“Don’t suppress it,” Lucifer coaxes him, lips wet and shining. “Give me everything.”

Alastor’s stitches glow in virulent green, eyes shining and flickering like radio dials as his form shifts, grows larger, filling up the elegant space of Lucifer’s serene music room like an eldritch monstrosity invading from the recesses of dark space.

The couch crumbles underneath them and they pitch forward, Alastor tendrils wrapping around Lucifer so he doesn’t get crushed upon impact with the floor.

Lucifer looks at him, now so small in stature, but his demonic attributes blaze in the mauve twilight spilling into the room. The piano casts a shadow across Lucifer as his coalesced, fiery halo burns and flickers. The King of Hell, dwarfed by Alastor’s monstrous form – laughs in dark delight. Somehow, despite their graceless tumble to the floor, Alastor is still sheathed deep in Lucifer’s viciously clenching body.

“Why did you stop?” Lucifer asks and stretches out like an unrepentant succubus.

It is only then that Alastor notices the hooves.

For the first time since he’s seen Lucifer’s feet bared for him, the fallen angel has hooves.

Operating entirely on his basest instincts, the sensation as if it’s his shadow spurring him on from within – he feels it explode across Lucifer’s beautiful, vaulted ceiling – laughing over the entire room as Alastor pushes Lucifer’s legs up, folding him in half and driving into him so hard that they slide a couple of inches across the rug.

“Yes!” Lucifer cries out, his voice demonic like the pressure at the center of the Earth, comprised of crushed molten metal swirling endlessly. “Like that!”

Alastor snarls like an angry animal and propels his hips forward, over and over, claws scrabbling and tearing against the pristine rug, sending up tufts of severed fluff. It looks almost as if he’d torn into Lucifer’s wings; the downy white debris raining down around Lucifer’s disheveled golden hair. Lucifer’s mouth is slack, moaning obscenely with every thrust, but it’s his eyes – with their pupils blown around a crushed diamond in gold – that prove Alastor’s undoing.

The windows rattle and then shatter in their panes as Alastor cries out his pleasure like a helplessly ensnared buck, head thrown back – eyes locking with his shadow’s up on the vaulted ceiling.

“Look at you…” Lucifer purrs from below, clenching around Alastor’s spent and receding length. “My very own Lovecraftian horror.”

Alastor blinks and comes to.

That’s…that’s hardly a compliment, is it?

His shadow recedes, and so does everything else about him, leaving him in a graceless sprawl of limbs upon the shredded rug, kneeling and shaking over Lucifer.

“That was great.” Lucifer grins, and it’s only then that Alastor realizes Lucifer managed to orgasm without him noticing, his taut stomach without a bellybutton, speckled with pearly white seed.

“When did you…”

Lucifer laughs, seemingly overjoyed.

He stares into Alastor’s eyes with a happy smirk. “Around the time you blew out my windows – it was fucking spectacular.”

Ego marginally assuaged by the seemingly sincere praise, Alastor pushes himself off the floor and sits, too afraid to attempt getting up.

“It would seem…” Alastor attempts to get his breathing under control. “…that we’ve managed to ruin a fair bit more than the couch.”

“Mmm,” Lucifer purrs and nudges Alastor’s shoulder playfully with the tip of his still cloven foot. “I will ask for your help with demo-ing some other rooms… provided you think our little experiment was a success?”

“Is utter, wanton destruction what constitutes as success in this case?”

“Oh yes,” Lucifer moans and stretches out like a purring cat freshly awoken from a good nap. “A resounding success, in my book.”

Alastor continues to pant softly, his wits still scattered around the room.

He’ll take that win too.

Chapter Text

Alastor is still kneeling on the carpet, Lucifer lying on his back before him, eyes closed and smile irrepressible. His crimson horns are still on full display, and so are the rest of his demonic attributes – his slender black tail swishing across the carpet, the nimble barb on its tip occasionally brushing against Alastor’s knees.

The urge to pull at it itches across the palms of his hands.

“We should probably show our faces at the Hotel,” Alastor says, voice slightly compromised.

“Yeah, yeah…give me a minute.” Lucifer smirks. “Let me bask in the moment a little.”

Alastor wishes he could claim responsibility for Lucifer’s good mood, but he knows the sex was almost incidental. Sure, Lucifer may have been satisfied to experiment, but being handed this news – that redemption was possible – that seems to have put Lucifer in the kind of mood Alastor could never hope to induce, even if he tried.

Lucifer cracks an almost jaw-dislocating yawn and finally opens his eyes – still crimson and gold. Alastor can’t look away. Shattered glass litters the floor nearby, glistening with purplish-red edges.

“You’re staring, darling.” Lucifer states, merciless. “Why?”

“You have run out of questions for today,” Alastor says, unwilling to speak the truth unless it’s dragged out of him as part of their deal. For the next fourteen hours or so, he is safe from further excavations of information on Lucifer’s part.

“Ah. Fair enough.” Lucifer lets it go and looks at the shattered windows. “Almost a pity to fix them…”

“How so? Was what we did such a momentous occasion that it deserves a memento?”

Lucifer gives him a devilish look.

“Oh, it was momentous alright. More than you know.”

“Do you have anything in particular against this room?” Alastor inquires, wondering if perhaps this is the room where Lilith decided to throw her ring at him and announce her departure.

“This is the room where I learned my daughter was right all along. If that doesn’t deserve a permanent reminder, I don’t know what does?”

It’s such an evasive answer, but Alastor hasn’t the wherewithal to keep prying. Lucifer gets to his feet in front of Alastor and stretches again, the lines of his body taut and smooth. “Ungh,” Lucifer groans, and Alastor spies a trickle of fluid spilling down Lucifer’s pale thigh. “I should clean us both up.” His voice is almost mournful, but with a wave of his hand, the offending trickle vanishes without a trace, and a mild golden swoosh of magic washes over Alastor, leaving him feeling refreshed.

Lucifer then raises both of his hands and all the broken shards melt away, the air around them heated and distorted, and Alastor watches, agog, as the molten glass pours down from the top of the windows, filling in panes as it goes, and when it gets to the central one, Lucifer reforms the rectangular shape into a circle instead, what appears to be molten metal spreading like branches of a growing tree and the glass fills the spaces in-between. Alastor stares in astonishment as he realizes what he’s looking at, a brand new stained-glass window, depicting a black and purple snake ascending to the heavens in a stream of golden rays. The rest of the window shifts to accommodate the addition and clear glass fills out the rest of the windowpanes. He can hear a snap of fingers and a small golden plaque appears on the bottom edge of the rounded window-insert. It’s too far away to read.

“What does the inscription say?” Alastor asks as he turns towards Lucifer, who appears quite satisfied with himself, barbed tail swishing lazily behind him.

“Sir Pentious – First to be Redeemed. And two dates, the battle and today.”

“I presume you wish to break the good news to everyone at the hotel?” Alastor inquires.

Lucifer looks at him with a perplexed frown. “What, are you crazy?”

Alastor is taken aback by that response and watches Lucifer shake out his legs until his human feet appear, then walks to the piano, where he snatches his underwear from the music rack and puts it back on.

“Wait… did you talk to Heaven… without your underwear on?”

Lucifer turns to him, still crimson horned and golden eyed and starts laughing himself silly. The image of the literal devil in his pink pinstriped underwear is almost unbearably ridiculous. “Holy shit, aren’t you a fucking priss about the weirdest things?”

“A…priss.” Alastor deadpans, insulted.

“Yeah!” Lucifer cackles. “You fucked me like the second coming of Cthulhu, and now you’re scandalized by the fact I went commando during a mirror call? Ah ha ha ha, you’re killing me!”

“There’s no need to be so crass, is there?” Alastor says in distaste, finally standing up. His shadow hands him the underwear Lucifer magically stripped from him and cackles at Alastor mockingly before disappearing.

“Crass?” Lucifer looks at him incredulously. “What words should I use then, if the term ‘fucking’ offends you? Fornication?”

Alastor huffs as he steps into his boxers and pulls them up.

“Or maybe I should call it – doing the nasty? Shagging? Letting you smash?” Lucifer is straight up giggling. “How about ‘riding the baloney pony’? Is that better?”

“Of course it’s NOT better!” Alastor snaps at him, mortified.

“Aww, have I offended your puritanical sensibilities?” Lucifer croons. “Should I use a more clinical term? Does ‘copulate’ satisfy you?”

Alastor makes a disgusted grimace and buttons his underwear.

“No good?” Lucifer mocks him, deeply amused. “Perhaps I should use an older, more obscure term, hmm? What about… ‘Riding a dragon upon St. George’? No? Aw.”

“You can stop now,” Alastor says warningly, having had enough of Lucifer’s humiliating remarks to last him a decade.

“Ok, ok… maybe I was too crass. Maybe a blushing maiden needs to be courted?” Lucifer says sweetly, his tail brushing against Alastor’s cheek. “I’ve got another one for you – ‘to arrive at the end of the sentimental journey’. Is that less offensive?”

In Alastor’s opinion, all of it is offensive.

“Or maybe… you want to call it ‘making love’?” Lucifer says deceptively mild. “Do you want to make love with me, Alastor?”

“This conversation is over,” Alastor spits out.

Lucifer chuckles and takes his infernally sinuous tail away.

“And I need that shirt back.” Alastor remarks coldly. “Now, if you please.”

“What if I don’t please?” Lucifer smiles mischievously at him, picking up one side and bringing it to his nose to inhale deeply. “It smells like you, maybe I would like to keep it?”

Alastor’s fingers twitch. Lucifer’s ass probably smells like Alastor by now, should that mean he gets to keep that?

“Do you enjoy humiliating me?” Alastor asks, irritated beyond measure.

“Humili-“ Lucifer exclaims, visibly perturbed. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not excused.” Alastor all but snarls. “Now, would you please stop your nonsense and give me my clothing back?”

Lucifer raises his hands, all of his demonic attributes fading from his countenance until he looks much as he always does, soft and mildly ridiculous. “Wait, wait, wait. What humiliation are you talking about?”

Alastor frowns. “All of the unsavory terms for… sex… that you threw in my face?”

Lucifer huffs out a half-aborted laugh, appearing utterly bemused. “That…was…not — hah.”

“That was not what? Designed to make me uncomfortable? Meant as mockery?”

Lucifer lets out a wheezing groan of exasperation. “Jesus, you are SUCH a prickly little drama queen.”

“And you are unforgivably rude.”

“And you, my deer demon, are a fucking prude. Ha!” Lucifer quips, appearing deeply satisfied with his little joke.

“Still insulting.” Alastor points out.

“Okay, fine, I see you can’t take a joke this morning.” Lucifer shakes his head and shrugs out of Alastor’s shirt. “Just so you know, I was trying to flirt with you. But of course you’d take it as something nefarious…”

 Alastor’s brows knit together. “You what?”

“Yes, you dumbass.” Lucifer chuckles as he shakes out the shirt and runs a hand over it, soft steam rising out of it, leaving it appearing clean and freshly-pressed. “I was teasing you.”

“By having fun at my expense?”

Lucifer looks at him like he’s suddenly expressed desire for redemption. “That’s…literally the definition? You know, banter? Jibing? Having a little laugh? Sue me for being in a good mood, fuck.”

Lucifer extends the shirt Alastor’s way and shakes it impatiently, a clear indication that he wants to be rid of it. “For your information, only you would take me wanting your shirt as a fucking insult. Most other lovers would be overjoyed.”

“Then go steal their shirts, your Majesty.” Alastor bristles and snatches his garment away.

“Look, you’re sniping at me for no reason. And I’m in too good of a mood to let whatever crawled up your ass and died to ruin it.”

Would it kill Lucifer to apologize?

“Is this a hurt ego thing?” Lucifer questions. “Cause that’s not what I was going for.”

Alastor snorts as he pushes his arms into the sleeves. A hurt ego thing!

“Alastor, come on. We just had a nice morning. Let’s not end it on a sour note?”

“I warned you to stop and you didn’t.” Alastor points out.

That actually gives Lucifer pause. “Yeah… you did.” He admits. “I thought… you were just embarrassed. But you’re right. I should have stopped when I realized it bothered you.”

Alastor is halfway into buttoning his shirt when he looks at Lucifer, who seems genuinely contrite. “Fine,” he says magnanimously. “Apology accepted.”

Lucifer offers him a weak smile and waves his hand, appearing fully clothed once more, hat included.

With a splintering crack, the smashed couch reforms next to Alastor, once more pristine.

“I thought destroying it was the entire point of this exercise?” Alastor asks, smoothing down his fully buttoned shirt.

“That’s cute.” Lucifer grins at him. “I’d call you cute but I’m scared you’d think I was insulting you again.”

“Your tastes are… questionable.”

Lucifer laughs again, a full, deep-bellied laugh. “Of course they are, why else would I be into you?”

“Ok, that was definitely an insult.”

Lucifer chuckles and advances on him, pulling him down by tugging on Alastor’s shirt.

“Don’t be mad, Al. I enjoy verbally sparring with you.” And then he drops a brief, chaste kiss on Alastor’s lips before releasing him. “We should go.”

“You are planning on telling your daughter, aren’t you?”

“What, that we’re involved?” Lucifer waggles his eyebrows.

“Playing stupid doesn’t suit you. Save that for Mikey.”

“Ah ha ha!” Lucifer looks at him with bright eyes. “I will tell her the good news, in private. We have to decide what the best course of action is. If we carelessly broadcasted the news for all of Hell to hear, there would be pandemonium. You don’t just break that kind of news without preparing for it.”

“So, are you going to do the same thing that Heaven did – hide it?” Alastor says in disgust.

“There is hiding, and there is being strategic.” Lucifer points out. “Do you want riots in the streets? Do you want a horde of demons trying to break into the hotel with us being unable to accommodate for the numbers? Stop for a second and think, Alastor.”

When he puts it that way, Alastor supposes it makes sense. They have plenty of room in the Hotel, but it’s not like the space and the resources are infinite. They would need more staff, additional security… it would be a logistical nightmare.

“I can see the challenges a sudden influx of guests would cause, I suppose.”

“Good!” Lucifer exclaims, waving his hand to mend the shredded carpet beneath their feet. “Glad we’re on the same page here.”

“Will I be consulted about these future steps you intend to take?”

“Do you want to be?” Lucifer asks blithely.

“Seeing how I am the host of the entire establishment-“

“Co-host, technically.” Lucifer points out and Alastor narrows his eyes at him in irritation.

“Seeing how I helped Charlie establish the damned thing in the first place, not being consulted would be counter-productive in the extreme. I keep the whole place running smoothly.”

“Bitch, please.” Lucifer looks at him flatly. “Your minions man the place; you only walk around looking vaguely creepy and menacing.”

“I defended the damn place before you deigned to show up and flex your vast angelic powers!”

“Well, I’m flexing them now!” Lucifer fights back, face close enough to Alastor’s that their noses are almost touching.

Alastor snarls and kisses Lucifer, fingers tangled in his coat, pulling him up.

Fuck him and his angelic powers and never having to get his fucking hands dirty.

Lucifer moans against his mouth, lips falling open, but Alastor doesn’t deepen the kiss and pulls away instead.

Lucifer is looking up at him, visibly flustered. “What was that for? N-not that I’m complaining, mind you!”

“That was to shut you up.” Alastor says in a superior tone. “The only method I have found thus far that actually seems to work.”

Lucifer flushes. “Fine. Okay. You win this one.”

“Good.” Alastor says smugly and releases Lucifer’s tailcoat. “Now, would you mind opening a portal back to your room at the hotel? I left all of my clothes in your bathroom.”

“I recall…” Lucifer smiles. “It was nice seeing your corset again, even if it wasn’t on you at the time.”

“…is that flirting again?” Alastor asks, perturbed that he cannot be certain.

“Mmm,” Lucifer purrs happily. “So you can learn.”

Why is Lucifer flirting with him? What is the point of such a thing when they have a deal already in place? Alastor is already ensnared – Lucifer needs no further trappings to make sure of that.

Lucifer snaps his fingers and a swirling gold portal appears. “Duty calls…” Lucifer sighs, happiness lingering in his expression. “Come along, then.”

Alastor steps through the portal after Lucifer and hears it fizzle out of existence behind him.

“Really? Leading me straight into the bathroom?” Alastor notes drily.

“What?” Lucifer shrugs massively. “That’s where you needed to go?”

Alastor gives him an unimpressed stare. Lucifer proceeds to ignore it and squeals in happiness. “Oh, look! Your monocle!” Before Alastor can do a damned thing, his monocle vanishes in a puff of golden smoke and Lucifer turns to him with a triumphant grin. “How does it look on me? Good?”

He stares at Lucifer, fully dressed in his pristine white finery, wearing Alastor’s monocle. It looks… deeply disturbing.

“Should I just get you my entire outfit as a costume?” Alastor asks, quirking an eyebrow. “Would that finally make you happy?”

Lucifer gapes, utterly outraged (yet still amused, for all that). “You bitch!”

“What? It was a perfectly logical offer after you trying to abscond with multiple pieces of it.”

“Now who’s being insulting? You make it sound like I’m a kid in need of a Halloween costume!”

Alastor wants to say that Lucifer’s entire outfit looks like a tacky Halloween costume already, but bites his tongue.

“You just thought of something insulting, didn’t you?” Lucifer narrows his eyes at him accusingly.

“Are you going to punish me for thinking now? I chose not to say it; that should be good enough for you.”

“Ha! So it WAS insulting!”

Was Lucifer seriously fishing now? This was getting utterly ridiculous.

“Do I have to kiss you again?” Alastor threatens.

Lucifer’s eyes go wide. “I mean… hah. Ha ha. You’re already using that against me, shame on you.”

“Do you want to try on something else of mine or are you planning on hovering nearby as I dress myself?”

“Sheesh!” Lucifer exclaims, embarrassed, taking the monocle off and dropping it onto the pile of Alastor’s clothing with a flick of the wrist. “Just tell me I’m not wanted in here, no need to be so damn catty about it!”

“You’re not wanted in here while I’m changing.” Alastor says flatly. “Now go away.”

“Ok, I am too happy today to let you get to me, so I will allow you to be persnickety.” Lucifer says, still mildly upset at being rebuffed. “See you outside when you’re done.”

And with that, Lucifer adjusts his hat and stomps out of the bathroom, the door closing behind him.

Alastor exhales, bracing himself against Lucifer’s gleaming marble countertop. This day is starting to feel absolutely interminable, and it isn’t even noon yet. His expression in the mirror hovers between inscrutable and tormented. Lucifer’s playfulness keeps catching him off guard.

And then there’s the matter of ascension.

A sinner…has been successfully redeemed. A feat nobody truly thought possible, save for the delusional princess of hell, Charlotte Morningstar. Hah. Not so delusional after all.

Lucifer was correct, this changed things. It made Hell not necessarily a permanent place designed for eternal punishment, but potentially a purgatory instead – a pit stop on the way to the final destination. Alastor takes his shirt off so he can put his corset on first. If sinners can be redeemed… that means there are certain conditions that can be met – an entry ticket into Heaven. So, what did Sir Pentious do that got him in there? Was it the heroic self-sacrifice? Or something else? Surely that couldn’t be the only criteria…

A thought strikes then, unbidden and frightening – what happened to soul deals if one ascended? To the best of his knowledge, Sir Pentious didn’t have any thralls, save for the egg minions he’d created, but they weren’t enslaved souls, merely mechanical constructs. Could only souls unencumbered by deals ascend?

Alastor tightens the laces on his corset, feeling chilled to the bone. What if…

What if ascension could break pre-existing deals? Otherwise, an entire army of thralls would automatically be redeemed alongside their Overlord in case one died, which seemed like a rather large loophole in this entire business, and as such, very unlikely to occur. What if each enslaved soul only added to the burden of sin on the owner, putting their own redemption out of reach?

And Alastor… he has…quite a number. Not as many as some of the others…but more than enough to matter if this was the case. More than enough to be condemned – irredeemable.

He shakes off the thought as he finishes lacing himself up and ties a sturdy knot. He could never fulfill any of the other criteria anyhow. Whatever nonsense about remorse and saying sorry Charlie keeps spewing doesn’t apply to him. He doesn’t regret any of his actions that led to the tumble into the pit, except his ill-conceived first deal that cost him his freedom.

He couldn’t have known, he tells himself. It had been worth it at the time.

It was still worth it. After all, there was nothing in heaven waiting for him except his no doubt disappointed mother. He would be so bored up there he’d probably start murdering angels left and right only so he could be sent right back down here. No. It was far better to set his sights upon something that was achievable – namely, capitalizing on his sway over Lucifer.

The devil himself had been flirting with Alastor today. Was that simply out of sheer unmitigated boredom or was Lucifer actually serious? Was his banter just an attempt at finding joy, any scrap of it that could be eked out in Hell, or did he genuinely want something from Alastor save temporary amusement? Their deal was about Alastor ‘entertaining’ Lucifer, such as it was. If he played into it, could he get more out of Lucifer? Get his humiliation’s worth?

Playacting romance – how hard could it be?

Offer the occasional compliment, a trifle of his supposed affection; engage Lucifer in this banter he seems to appreciate so much?

Alastor dresses himself in his shirt, buttoning it for the second time this morning.

This was doable, he thinks to himself. Perhaps a new gift was in order – something celebratory for the so-called good news that only him and Lucifer knew so far (in Hell, anyway). After seeing Lucifer in crimson for the better part of the morning, Alastor’s brain jumps right back into the idea of seeing him in a dress… A dinner, perhaps? Followed by dancing? The excuse was plausible enough, Alastor simply needed to procure a suitable garment to gift to Lucifer…

As his mind catalogues tailors and boutiques in the Ring, he dresses in his slacks. Perhaps he should peruse all of them first, just to get an idea of the offerings, and if he doesn’t like anything he finds, there was always the option of sketching something himself – wouldn’t be the first time. He hums speculatively as he affixes his bowtie. What about his own attire? He should probably get something to complement whatever outfit he procures for Lucifer, ah, so many possibilities… The only thing he knows for sure is that it has to be crimson. Perhaps with a touch of black, or gold…

Alastor steps into his boots and then reaches for his coat. The mirror no longer reflects anything amiss with his expression. Good. He puts his coat on and buttons it closed; then pushes his fingers into the gloves. His monocle goes on last and Alastor takes stock of his appearance. Nothing stands out. He doesn’t look like he’s had dregs of angelic blood pulled out of his eyes, or like he’s fucked Lucifer so hard he managed to shatter his windows.

And he definitely doesn’t look like he’s now in possession of one of the most damning and explosive pieces of information in the entirety of Hell.

He rolls his shoulders and steps out of the bathroom.

“I thought you’d died in there,” Lucifer snickers from behind his desk.

“I would not go quietly, I assure you.” Alastor snipes back automatically.

Lucifer snorts. “I suppose you’d like a portal back to your quarters to avoid the walk of shame?”

“There is no shame involved.” Alastor states regally.

“None?” Lucifer remarks, brows lifting curiously. “Interesting.”

“Why? Should I be ashamed of bedding you?”

“I can’t answer that,” Lucifer says lightly as he scratches something on a piece of parchment. “I’m not in your head.”

Alastor makes a non-committal noise in the back of his mouth.

Lucifer snaps his fingers and a portal appears in front of Alastor, revealing the parlor in his quarters.

“What will we do about that whole…ascension situation?” Alastor asks.

Lucifer looks at him and says nothing for a long moment. “Let me worry about that. It’s not like we won’t stay in touch anyway.”

“Are you going to call on me again soon?” Alastor asks with what he hopes passes for flirtatious demeanor.

“You sound almost… eager, my deer friend.” Lucifer remarks playfully, crossing his legs.

“Friends, are we?” Alastor muses aloud. “And here I thought we were enemies with benefits?”

“I treat my friends better than my enemies, I promise.” Lucifer says airily.

“I will keep that in mind.” Alastor smiles at him and gives him a tiny bow (actually just a minor head tilt, but who’s keeping score?) “À bientôt!” With that, he nonchalantly strolls through the portal and steps into his eerily quiet quarters.

The portal dissipates behind him.

They both have work to do.

Chapter Text

Alastor spends the rest of the afternoon restlessly pacing around his quarters. He attempts to distract himself with jazz, with the piano, he even whips out his neglected saxophone to play for a spell, but it isn’t working.

He keeps remembering the fact that a sinner has been redeemed and the potential ramifications of it.

He recalls Lucifer’s offer to be his friend and wonders, would that be so bad? Friendship was a more solid foundation for equitable exchange, and less volatile than a deal, but the potential for betrayal was also higher…

Vox came to mind.

Alastor’s mood sours. He despised thinking about the man. Decades of friendship down the drain, just like that. And for what? For Vox to get into bed with the very people Alastor tried to warn him against, especially Velvette. That accursed so-called love potion, it still gave Alastor the shivers.

She was bad news, Alastor had told Vox as much. He couldn’t tell him why, couldn’t reveal that she served the same cruel master he did, that nothing good would come of Vox getting entangled with her, even in a strictly business capacity, but Vox was so certain he needed her for his televised enterprise that nothing Alastor could say penetrated his boxy skull. His advice, well-meaning for once, fell on deaf ears.

Alastor could still taste the foul brew on his tongue, the utter shock to his system as he felt his inhibitions loosening artificially, and the worst of all was Vox’s debonair smile, so pleased with himself and eager… Alastor remembers flinging the tainted whiskey glass at Vox’s screen head and the way it shattered, leaving rivulets of amber and pink running down, soaking Vox’s shirt.

The rage he’d felt, the outrage of it still burned in his veins, all of these seven and then some years later.

The betrayal still stung, like that very first second of the disgusting compulsion hitting his bloodstream. Only by virtue of being a stronger demon, did he manage to rip into Vox, yanking away his wires, his shadow snarling as it pummeled the screen that housed his no longer quite as smug face.

“Al, please-!”

“Please, what?? How DARE you?!”

Alastor sighs and slumps in his armchair. Those final words kept ringing in his head. How dare he? How dare he not take no for an answer? How dare he reject his advice? How dare he destroy half a century long relationship for a chance at… at satisfying something as meager as carnal desires?

How dare he do the same thing that was done to his maman?

Vox wasn’t even fighting back for half of Alastor’s onslaught, just whimpering pathetically, which only angered Alastor further. How dare he cry, like he was the wronged party? How dare he destroy everything, one of the only decent things Alastor had managed to find in Hell? How dare he betray him?

Had Velvette not burst in and unleashed her own brand of hell upon Alastor, forcing him to retreat, he would have killed Vox.

Killed his former best friend.

“You’re dead to me.” Alastor says spitefully, repeating his parting shot aloud in the eerie quiet of his rooms.

And this was why things such as friendship were useless. It only left one open to betrayal. Mimzy used him, Vox stabbed him in the back, and the only person who remained true was Rosie.

What use was there in being Lucifer’s friend?  Alastor didn’t need to provide anything past entertainment. Why did Lucifer keep pushing for more out of him? Why ask for pretend-romance and friendship, why not be satisfied with the current arrangement – with companionship and occasional release?

Alastor didn’t want more. This was more than enough.

He couldn’t be Lucifer’s friend. As the angel correctly assumed previously, Alastor didn’t do friends, not anymore. Acquaintances, yes. Business associates, certainly. Thralls? Most assuredly. But not friends, never friends.

Alastor had been content. Vox was a witty individual, with a cutting tongue always at the ready with some sharp retort, eager to flay the unfortunates around them. It amused Alastor greatly. They shared a love of single malt, fine tunes, and scathing commentary. In his mind, the arrangement had been perfect just the way it was. Alastor was even willing to look past Vox’s inopportune confession of feelings, telling him in no uncertain terms that he was not interested in taking their relationship anywhere further, but was willing to forget the indiscretion ever happened and resume the friendship, provided Vox never ever brought it up again. For a month or so, the friendship limped along; until Vox informed him he was planning on partnering up, them two and Velvette, and blathered on about calling the trio VAV-oom or some such tacky nonsense, Alastor temporarily too stunned to shoot it down the second it came out of Vox’s speakers.

“I will not be part of this arrangement,” Alastor had warned Vox.

“Oh, come on, old pal! It’s going to be grand, with your sense of style and mastery over the airwaves, her business acumen, and my charisma – we could conquer this Ring! All media would be in our control –doesn’t that sound great?”

“You shouldn’t get involved with her. She’s bad news.”

“What bad news – she’s a firecracker! We need a draw for our female viewers, some fashion segment or some such baloney, it’s not like she would have any say in how the business was run, ha ha ha!”

“She has backing,” Alastor said seriously. “She cannot be trusted.”

“Don’t be silly, Al, my pal!” Vox dismissed him easily, like swatting a fly. “With us holding the reins, she would never get the chance.”

Alastor admired Vox’s ambitions, but the man had a fatal, if endearing flaw – he was overconfident. He put all his stock in charm, and nothing whatsoever in properly scoping out the competition.

“We will rule this place, you and I.” Vox said in a tone Alastor had failed to parse at the time. “What say you, partner?”

Alastor really should have known something was afoot, but he had sighed, taken a sip of his whiskey and was about to walk out when it hit him – the pungent sweetness undercutting the sharp bite of alcohol – something slimy and revolting crawling down his throat.

“What have you done?”

And Vox, the traitor, sitting before Alastor, stroking his groin and smirking up at him in triumph.

“Come sit in my lap, baby.”

Alastor jumps to his feet, bile crawling up his throat. It was done, it was over. This was why he refused to dwell on memories; there was nothing to be gained from it. He had learned his lesson well, crawled away with his dignity in tatters, and an ache in his chest that was only eclipsed by the pain Lucifer had caused him with his mocking request to slay him and fuck his dying body. Alastor rushes to his bathroom and vomits in the sink. There goes the wine.

There goes the sweetness.

Alastor starts laughing, helpless and insane. For a moment, he had forgotten. This was Hell.

No, him and Lucifer could never be friends. As he rinses out his mouth, coughing and spitting, he knows. He will never be Lucifer’s friend.

He will entertain.

He will amuse.

He will destroy Lucifer from within, if necessary.

But he will never – EVER – be his friend.

A musical little chime interrupts his train of thought and he exits the bathroom, looking for the source of the interruption. He scans his room, the bed, the expanse of the Bayou off the porch beyond his parlor, and there, on the coffee table, stands a very familiar glass bottle.

The bottle of water he had forgotten in Lucifer’s palace kitchen.

He approaches the intruding object with apprehension and realizes there is a small note affixed to the stopper. In looping, golden scrawl, it says: “You forgot this. Looking forward to the coffee?” And scrawled underneath it is an outline of a silly little rubber duck, in lieu of a signature.

That question mark, betraying Lucifer’s hesitation, as if he couldn’t simply demand it outright. He could demand anything of Alastor, but instead he asks, every single time.

With a shudder, Alastor removes the note and places it face down on the table. He takes the cold bottle and presses it to the feverish skin of his neck, sighing in relief as the condensation fades, cooling him down. He stays like that for a minute, pleased that the glass doesn’t seem to warm under his touch one bit, still as cold and refreshing as the moment he picked it up. Curious and half-wrung out, he unstoppers the bottle and takes a long, greedy gulp.

It tastes like the purest spring water, welling up from a crack in the mountains somewhere in paradise. It fills him with a sensation that is unfamiliar, like coming home to something his mother painstakingly made to celebrate some minor achievement, except his mother is long gone and this is just something Lucifer did on a whim with barely a thought. He drinks more, chasing understanding, drowning in the soothing coolness the water provides. It’s a paltry gesture, Lucifer had said, and it is, barely a speck of his vast powers necessary to conjure it, but the fact it was delivered, with a personalized note, the fact the glass vessel seems to be enchanted to remain cold no matter the ambient temperature… It isn’t paltry at all.

The contrast is jarring, that a long-time friend could taint his favorite drink, and yet his not-quite-enemy would provide him water, transparent and pure…

Alastor pulls the bottle away from his lips and stoppers it, lets it down on the table and sits back down in his armchair in absolute silence. He breathes out shakily, something firm but insubstantial lodged painfully in his throat. He stares at the dewy glass, a single droplet running down and touching the varnish on his table.

“Lucifer…” Alastor murmurs, temporarily lost in the memory of ethereal white and crimson plumage enveloping him on all sides. The memory of bloodied bandages, of Lucifer’s golden blood upon his claws, of Lucifer crying before him.

Lucifer shedding Alastor’s crimson housecoat.

Lucifer, standing in the doorway clad in nothing but his crimson shirt.

How could Alastor ever be his friend, when he was something much better – or much worse than that? Contractually obligated to serve as the king’s amusement – Lucifer’s very own court jester?

He’s not a friend at all, Alastor realizes – he’s a subordinate.

Is that why Lucifer is talking up them being equals so much, so he can rub it in Alastor’s face that they are not, and never have been equal? Calling Alastor his very own monster…perhaps that’s all he was in the end.

No, far better than deluding himself that Lucifer wanted equality, it was safer to assume it to be either a joke, or a whim on Lucifer’s part. Lucifer wanted to be entertained with some kind of courting game, so that was exactly what Alastor was going to give him.

An elaborate ritual not even the King of Hell could find fault with.

Alastor rises from his seat and heads out.

--

Useless. Worse than useless – the lot of them.

Next morning, Alastor grumbles into his coffee, sat at the table in the Bayou, sketching away. All of the boutiques and even his tailor were a bust the previous afternoon. The amount of shredded fabric and droopy sequins was absolutely astounding, making him wonder whether all of the dressmakers in Hell ascribed to the policy of creating a garment and then passing it through a wood chipper to get the desired effect. Even his tailor had looked at him blankly when Alastor attempted to explain what he wanted “Yes, a dress. No, not for myself, obviously. Yes to crimson, no to tatters. A tasteful slit in the front that allowed for movement. No to frills. No to lace. Metallic embellishments optional – preferably in gold.” It was at that point that his tailor sighed and told him to bring a drawing with measurements and a better idea of what he wanted and all but shoved him out the door. If the man wasn’t so adept at making custom corsetry, Alastor would have taken a leg as payment for his rudeness.

Which left him here, sat in the Bayou at around nine in the morning, staring at a small thermos balefully, wondering whether Lucifer would even bother showing up for the coffee he had all but extorted out of him. Strapless? Hm… No, if he wanted an open back, that wasn’t exactly feasible… Straps then? Definitely no sleeves, as he wanted Lucifer’s arms to be visible… Tied in the back?

He makes a ponderous noise and makes a new sketch, a slender outline with minimal curves, and pencils in a slightly plunging V neckline; it’s not as if Lucifer could have a sartorial catastrophe with no breasts to speak of. A tapered waist…good. Floor-length. Golden embellishments around the neck straps? A simple golden cylinder would suffice. And in the back… hmm… perhaps a slender golden chain running from the neck to the lower back, between the shoulder blades? If would allow Lucifer to spread his wings, should he wish to…just the way he did the last time they danced.

He resists the urge to sketch in more details, such as Lucifer’s hair. His mind unhelpfully supplies the fact that Lucifer magicked himself a pair of high-heeled boots before, and decides to leave that up to him. Lucifer would know best what footwear he can dance in, and judging by how consistently color-coordinated his ensemble is, Alastor has faith Lucifer could come up with something that wasn’t a complete eyesore. That and Alastor reserves the right to veto whatever it is that Lucifer comes up with.

Now the biggest obstacle to his plan is finding out Lucifer’s measurements. It’s not like he can just whip out a tape measure and do it, as that would ruin the surprise. So… what are his options? Alastor sips his coffee and flips through his sketches. He only really needs Lucifer’s height, chest, waist and hip measurements? With no sleeves to speak of, the shoulders don’t matter. Besides, with Lucifer’s vast powers, any flaw in the dress’ design could probably be fixed with a mere snap of his black fingers.

On a whim, Alastor sketches a golden bracelet around the right wrist. He knows the left hand already bears a ring and Alastor doesn’t want to think about it, or spend an evening watching the two items juxtaposed every time he looks at it.

He stops himself.

What is he thinking, coming up with accessories for Lucifer, like he’s some lady to be courted? With a disgusted frown, he scribbles over the bracelet. If Lucifer wants jewelry, he can conjure it up himself!

Before he can work himself up into a self-righteous rage, there’s a knock on his front door.

“Fuck!” He spits out and gathers all of his sketches, hands them and the pencil over to his shadow and instructs it to lock it away into his desk.

Fucking Lucifer, always showing up when he is least wanted – couldn’t even let Alastor enjoy one morning in peace, sipping on his deliciously brewed coffee, alone and unmolested? Who knows what he wants now, except coffee. Knowing Lucifer, he will bring plentiful innuendos to the table, and grace Alastor with more of his tasteless jokes. In a huff, Alastor crosses the room in long strides and flings his door open, words already out before the door has opened: “I guess punctuality isn’t your strong suit is it? I was beginning to think you would never show –uh– Charlie, my dear!”

The princess of Hell looks up at him, confused by his minor outpouring of annoyance.

“Uh, have I caught you at a bad time, Alastor? Were you expecting someone?”

His mind grapples for a response, and the best he comes up with is served up: “Ah, Husker wanted to discuss new beverage options for the Hotel. I presume he got waylaid.”

“Do you want me to remind him?” Charlie asks, supremely (un)helpfully.

“No, no need, my dear! I shall find him myself, worry not. Now, how may I assist you this morning?”

“Ah, with the talent show coming up, I was wondering… could we perhaps do a small radio segment – Hotel-wide only – perhaps in the evenings? Like the evening news, sharing what’s new at the Hotel, welcoming new guests by name; things of that nature? We could promote upcoming events, share updates, and maybe even take music requests? I think people would love it!”

By ‘we could do’, Charlotte Morningstar clearly meant ‘you’. What was it with this family, as Alastor was now beholden to all fucking THREE of them in some capacity. Fine, Lilith had been unavoidable, he supposed. Charlie was a logical continuation of that, as it was solely her mother’s request that landed Alastor in this dump in the first place. So how did he end up entangled with Lucifer on top of that? At least dear Charlie owed him a favor, unlike her ungrateful parents.

“And I presume you would bring me the briefs of what you’re expecting me to broadcast?”

“Of course!” Charlie says easily. “The only thing you would have to do is read it! Oh, and play the music, I suppose…”

“I could do a fifteen minute segment, I suppose…” Alastor drawls, hoping she won’t try to haggle for more.

“Oh… I mean…I suppose that makes sense? We don’t have that many guests yet…”

“Splendid! How does ten in the evening sound?”

“Hmm… I suppose that might be a smidge… late? What about nine?”

“I suppose that would be acceptable…” Alastor sniffs, lamenting in advance the loss of free time. Ah well, it could be a good excuse to air some cutting remarks…

“Incredible! Thank you so much, Alastor!”

“Oh, and I reserve the right to veto any overly-obscene music.”

“Ah…I suppose that’s fair?” She says sweetly and smiles up at him, wide and bright. “I will get that brief to you shortly!”

“Just slide it under the door to the Radio tower, would you, my dear? Business shouldn’t be conducted in doorways. “

“Oh! Oh, of course! I’m so sorry, I’ll do that then!”

“Splendid! I will see you later, then!” Alastor says pleasantly, hoping she can read the clear dismissal in his words.

“Ah, yes! Thanks again – I’m really looking forward to it!” She salutes him and laughs, then skips down the corridor merrily.

Argh. Of course she would get her mannerisms from Lucifer, of all people.

Alastor closes his door and sighs. Not a moment of peace to be had. At least there’s the coffee he can go back to. Even from the door, he can smell it wafting from out of the Bayou, soothing his nerves with the promise of superior taste. He’s halfway across the room when there’s a knock on his door again.

Oh, what did she forget now? Alastor rolls his eyes and pivots, stalking back to his door. He wants to snarl, but he schools his expression into civility, puts on his best and most gracious host voice and says: “Hello again, darling! Did you forget something?”

And is greeted with air. He blinks twice and with a sinking feeling looks down, locking eyes with none other than Lucifer himself. “Good morning?” Lucifer ventures, expression midway between amusement and apprehension.

Alastor is sorely tempted to slam the door in his face. His eye twitches.

“I hate you.” Alastor says blithely, right hand gripping the doorway.

Lucifer laughs. “Aww, who peed in your cereal this morning?”

The compulsion tingles across the back of his neck. “Is that a genuine question you want answered?”

“Oh! No,” Lucifer fumbles. “I keep forgetting about that…”

“You just missed your daughter.” Alastor hisses, looming over Lucifer in annoyance.

“I know?” Lucifer smiles tentatively. “I waited for her to leave.”

“Why not come up together to not waste my time?”

“Because I would want to stay behind and didn’t feel like explaining it?”

Alastor stares him down resentfully. “You’re late.”

“Late?” Lucifer’s eyebrows shoot up. “We never set a time…”

That is true, annoyingly enough, but Alastor doesn’t feel like conceding the point. “Get in before I change my mind.” Lucifer rolls his eyes and strolls in, ducking under Alastor’s extended arm.

“Oooh! Is that coffee I smell?” Lucifer asks, irritatingly chipper and turns towards Alastor. “Made enough for me?”

Alastor wants to say no, that he very much didn’t do any such thing, but then Lucifer follows the smell and… and notices the table out in the Bayou, with one cup of no longer steaming coffee and a gleaming black thermos. Not terribly inconspicuous. Lucifer picks up the thermos and shakes it, confirming that there’s indeed liquid inside. “Aw, you did!” And when Alastor catches up to him, still looking at him with a displeased smile, Lucifer grins up at him, corners of his eyes crinkling in undisguised joy. “Thank you! I admit, I was looking forward to it.”

“I hope you brought a mug with you?” Alastor inquires.

Lucifer makes a little swirling motion with his fingers, a handle appearing around his fingers and Lucifer presents the conjured vessel for inspection. It’s a pale, pastel pink monstrosity with a duckling emblem and something written underneath in gold lettering.

“Duck…You.” Alastor reads, then directs a venomously unimpressed look Lucifer’s way. “Seriously?”

Lucifer makes a superbly pleased expression and places the mug on the garden table, then reaches for the thermos, uncapping it and breathing in the released scent. “Ahhh, yes. Sweet nectar of the gods.”

“Gods had nothing to do with it.” Alastor mutters and sits down in his chair, annoyed with himself for leaving out a chair for Lucifer when he got up two hours ago. He should have summoned a tree stump for him instead. With a wasp’s nest hidden inside it.

Lucifer pours himself a generous amount, then shakes the thermos a bit and turns to Alastor. “Want the rest of it?”

“What, won’t hijack it this time to feed it to me directly?” Alastor snipes at him.

Lucifer gives him a smarmy, eminently punchable smile. “Only if you’d like that…”

“I would not.” Alastor states flatly and extends his mug towards Lucifer, who shakes his head minutely and pours the rest of the coffee into Alastor’s mug. “Thank you.” Alastor says primly, more as a reflex than out of genuine sentiment, but Lucifer makes no further remarks as he caps the thermos and sets it back on the table. Lucifer sweeps his tails aside and sits in the chair opposite Alastor. They remain as they are for a minute, cradling their mugs in silence.

Lucifer takes a sip and hums in pleasure. “Ah. It’s even better this time.”

Of course it was better, Alastor thinks but doesn’t say, it was made with good water. In lieu of an answer, he takes a generous gulp of the admittedly ambrosial substance. Lucifer looks around and notices their surroundings for the first time. His eyes skim over Alastor’s indoor garden, taking in the trees and the reeds with an appreciative look.

“Impressive bit of magic.” Lucifer notes, the compliment a genuine one. “Is it modeled after a real place?”

The compulsion activates once more and Alastor wonders why some questions don’t seem to trigger it at all, while others do. Perhaps rhetorical questions don’t meet the criteria.

“The Bayou.” Alastor reveals. “A little slice of home, I suppose. That’s your first question answered, by the way.”

“Ah. Damn. Sorry, didn’t mean to force you to answer.” Lucifer says apologetically, cradling his warm mug. With a wave of his fingers, two lumps of sugar drop into Lucifer’s mug, and he conjures a spoon for good measure, stirring it absentmindedly.

“It’s part of our deal,” Alastor shrugs, staring at hanging moss on a nearby tree.

“I don’t like forcing the truth out of you,” Lucifer says seriously. “Especially not about private things.”

Alastor should think that would be the perfect use of their deal. It’s certainly what he would have used it for if the situation were reversed. “It’s what I signed up for.” Alastor offers, as nonchalantly as he is able.

“That’s why I don’t like making deals…” Lucifer sighs, sagging in his seat. “It just feels… wrong.”

“You’ve lived a long time; surely you’ve made plenty by now.”

Lucifer gives him an odd look before retreating into his mug. He stares down at the table and looks troubled for a moment before turning his gaze out towards the Bayou once more. “I don’t really see any wildlife…”

“I could summon you a shadow gator if you are so inclined…”

Lucifer laughs, but it sounds strained to Alastor’s ears. “No, I’m, ah…I’m good.”

“I do miss the smell. It wasn’t especially pleasant when I was alive, but in here? Hah. It could hardly be worse.”

Lucifer perks up at that. “I…I could do that.”

“Do what?”

“Add a scent to it.”

“Why would you do that?” Alastor asks, perplexed.

“As an apology for unintentionally making you answer something you probably meant to keep private?”

Alastor doesn’t understand the rationale, but cannot find a compelling enough reason to share it, so he remains quiet.

“Would you like me to do that?” Lucifer asks and the compulsion tingles at the back of Alastor’s skull.

“That’s another question, by the way, and the answer is…yes. It would be…pleasant.”

“Fuck!” Lucifer swears. “I hate deals, ugh!”

Alastor smiles and goes back to his coffee.

“Fine, so… a marsh… probably decomposing plant matter… brackish water…alright. Yeah, no biggie!” Lucifer cracks his knuckles and gets up, looks around for a bit, walks out to a seemingly random spot in the swamp and crouches. His hands touch the ground, which he caresses for a moment. Alastor feels a tingle down his spine. Lucifer closes his eyes and a golden glow envelops him, moving around him in a little swirl. The golden pinpricks of light look like fireflies. Alastor could never fully capture their glow, only approximate it. Probably because his magic was of a more shadowy variety.

A subtle wind blows across the swamp, making the leaves rustle. Alastor can hear the chirping of crickets, the low rumble of bullfrogs , and goes still in his seat as the Bayou seemingly comes to life around him. He could only make a facsimile of it, the pretty vista, but never–

All at once, he’s hit with the smell of decomposing wood, stagnant water and for a moment, he is back home, sitting on a chair out in the Bayou and enjoying a humid summer evening, away from the bustle of the city. Birds chirp in the treetops and he spies a lone heron out between the trees. It’s an illusion, but it’s so finely crafted that his mind accepts is as reality.

For a glorious moment…he is back on Earth. His eyes prickle and he swallows.

Lucifer exhales and opens his eyes, throwing Alastor a shy look. “Do you…like it?”

“Question number three,” Alastor says, fighting the prickle in the corner of his eyes, and the rising nostalgia that’s come unbidden. “And yes. I very much do. It sounds…and smells…just like home.”

Lucifer sits on the ground and sighs in relief. “Damn. I really should be more careful with these questions…”

“Mhm.” Alastor murmurs superfluously, and gets lost in the sounds around them. It’s a perfect likeness, so much so that he feels he could go out and capture some of the illusionary wildlife. A salamander scurries over a nearby root and disappears in the reeds.

Lucifer gave him this… this…gift. It’s unexpectedly wonderful and Alastor doesn’t feel like he did anything to deserve it, but feels almost…touched by it, regardless.

“Ah, right!” Lucifer exclaims. “I brought breakfast. Sorry, totally forgot for a moment, there.”

“You could have led with that.” Alastor notes, following Lucifer as he gets up, dusts himself off and goes back to the table.

“Hm, mind if I wash my hands first?”

“Go right ahead.” Alastor motions towards the room behind them. “You know where the bathroom is.”

Lucifer makes a soft noise of acknowledgment and strides off back into the room and out of sight. Alastor returns his full attention to the Bayou, now teeming with life and noise. It’s soothing in a way he never expected. Where did Lucifer get all of the animal noises from? It’s not like there was a radio station on Earth broadcasting animal noises…was there? And besides, Lucifer heavily implied that he was unable to access radio waves on his own. Were all of these noises…stored somewhere in his memory? The call of a specific bird, and frogs, and crickets?

Alastor observes the fireflies and one lands on the rim of his mug. Its glow is… different, more…accurate than before. Did Lucifer… reignite them with his light magic?

Alastor blinks away the moisture gathering in his eyes. It’s so like Lucifer to do something needlessly nice than most nobody would have noticed. The only reason Alastor did was because he had made the damned place and spent years looking at it – knew it like the back of his hand.

His clawed, bloodied hand.

The firefly drifts away into the gloom and Alastor feels himself relaxing into his seat, mug cradled in his hands and eyes closed to better appreciate the lively soundscape he’d been unexpectedly blessed with. Somewhere in the far distance, there’s a trickle of water, but Alastor pays it no mind. It’s perfect like this – just him and the smell of coffee out in the Bayou, like in his little cabin back home, out on the minuscule porch, relaxing after a successful kill. Relishing the music of the swamp around him.

Lucifer’s footsteps are measured, his approach near soundless, and Alastor appreciates the quiet, as unnecessary chatter would disturb the peace. The chair scrapes the ground as Lucifer settles back into it, the crisp fabric of his sleeves rustling for a moment. There’s a tingling rush of magic from across the table, and Alastor can hear the softest clink of tableware as it lands on its surface. A scent hits his nostrils and he opens his eyes. Lucifer is busy shaking out a napkin to place it over his lap.

On the table, there are two plates; Alastor’s filled with an assortment of cold cuts, two steaming hot and crispy pastries, and a small amount of butter. Lucifer’s plate contains naught but two croissants, baked a lovely golden color.

“I hope that’s okay…” Lucifer refers to Alastor’s plate. “No demon meat, of course.”

“Aw, what if I would have preferred that?” Alastor points out with a smirk as he unfolds his own napkin, draping it across his knees.

“Well, tough shit,” Lucifer mutters in disgust. “Because I’m not serving you people. If you want to add to your extensive list of sins, you’ll do it away from my sight and my supervision.”

“Why so prickly?” Alastor says lightly. “Most of them regenerate anyways?”

“Except those slaughtered in the exterminations, you mean?” Lucifer observes as he tears into the flaky pastry, tossing the morsel into his mouth as if it had caused him personal offense.

Alastor waves his hand dismissively in Lucifer’s general direction. “Agree to disagree.”

Lucifer shudders, but makes no further comment, biting into his croissant with a small frown, then washing it down with a sip of over-sweetened coffee. Lucifer takes another bite and a speck of jam dribbles out, landing on his chin. Ah, so they had a filling. No doubt something nauseatingly sweet.

“What is in those?” Alastor inquires.

“Apricot jam,” Lucifer says as he wipes the offending excess with his thumb and sucks it into his mouth to dispose of it. The flicker of that forked tongue proves momentarily distracting. “Why?” Lucifer asks.

“Hm?” Alastor wonders aloud and looks up into Lucifer’s eyes. “No reason. Should have known you would go for something revoltingly sweet.”

 “Aw, and you don’t like sweet things?”

Alastor sniffs haughtily as he butters one of the pastries. “Not particularly, no.”

Lucifer cracks a smile and gives him a sultry look. “Does that mean you don’t like me either?”

“What, you think you’re sweet?” Alastor observes, noting the absurdity of that particular statement. Lucifer is about as sweet as a succulent, poisoned berry.

“And you don’t?” Lucifer asks, seemingly perplexed.

Alastor takes a bite out of his buttered pastry and almost groans at the delicious taste of salted, melted butter paired with the crunch of the crust. Once he’s done chewing and savoring the taste, he swallows and answers at last: “You’re deceptive.”

“Deceptive?” Lucifer exclaims. “Wow, that’s harsh!”

Alastor uses a fork to spear one of the cold cuts arrayed neatly on his plate. “You’re the literal Devil.”

Lucifer looks vaguely insulted at that. “Well, I never wanted that title – it was tacked onto me!” His mood sinks another notch and his shoulders drop. “I’m just…Lucifer.”

“Yes…I suppose you are.” Alastor concedes and tucks into his meal in earnest. Meanwhile, Lucifer is all but done with his first croissant, and is wiping the flaky crumbs off his lips.

“So…” Lucifer ventures, giving Alastor a particularly mischievous look. “Deceptive. What else do you think of me?”

Alastor’s mind supplies additional epithets: depressed, vulnerable, stupidly kind for no reason.

“I mean, you don’t have to answer that.” Lucifer backpedals for seemingly no reason. “Or you could lie, I suppose.”

“I thought you abhorred my occasional dishonesty?” Alastor grins. Lucifer gives him a pointed look, one of the particularly unimpressed variety. “Ha ha–” Lucifer says flatly, “– be that as it may, I don’t feel comfortable pulling the truth from you, so…this is probably for the best.”

“How so?” Alastor asks, because Lucifer’s rationale simply doesn’t hold water.

“Well…you hate telling the truth.” Lucifer states plainly.

“So?” Alastor asks, as that wouldn’t stop him were their positions reversed.

“So why would I do something to you that I know you hate?” Lucifer states, looking at him with something approaching softness. “The thing about truth–” Lucifer smiles wryly and looks away, “–is that it’s worth more if you actually want to share.”

“That’s why the deal is binding?” Alastor offers. “Why does this seem to bother you so much?”

Lucifer looks at him, something wounded flitting in his gaze. “Because…I know I hurt you before.”

“Hurt me?” Alastor inquires, hoping Lucifer won’t dredge up anything awful.

“Yeah,” Lucifer squirms in his seat, visibly uncomfortable. “Verbally and…otherwise.”

“Are you referring to that time you broke my spine?” Alastor asks lightly, taking another bite of his delicious pastry to avoid saying anything worse.

“I–what?” Lucifer looks at him, shocked and wounded in equal measure. “Broke your–? When?”

“In your rooms,” Alastor reminds him primly, spearing another cold cut on his fork. “When you flung me into your bed-frame?”

Lucifer exhales, a tormented look in his eyes. “Wh–what?”

Alastor scrutinizes his expression, the guilt bleeding out of every pore and deems it sincere.

“It would seem you…weren’t aware?”

Lucifer chokes, words coming out in sputtered little gasps. “I-ah…no, I – I broke your spine?” He says it with so much hurt – so much anguish – so much genuine emotion that Alastor almost feels bad for bringing it up.

Almost.

“Yes, why did you think I wasn’t moving?”

“I wasn’t… that wasn’t what I wanted to do.” Lucifer says quietly, trying to get his errant emotions under control.

“Well, what you did afterwards seemed pretty deliberate…”

Lucifer hunches in on himself a little. “Look…I’m not proud of what I did, but I was…angry. I was angry and I just…wanted you gone.” Lucifer expels the last word the same way he expelled Alastor from his rooms that day – decisively and without regret. That’s why what he does next comes as a bolt out of the blue – with a shudder, Lucifer starts crying. ”I’m…I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Because…you didn’t deserve it.”

Alastor chuckles as he takes a deliberate sip of his coffee. “Oh, no. No, no – I did – I definitely deserved it.”

“What… do you mean?” Lucifer asks, confused, wiping his tears on his sleeve.

Alastor states the obvious: “You punished me.”

Lucifer halts, reassessing. “Yes…” He admits after a lengthy pause. “I guess I did… punish you.”

“And I–” Alastor punctuates every word, “–deserved it.”

“Look, I’m not God, I don’t get to judge.” Lucifer explains earnestly. “I’m just a sinner, just like everyone else.”

“Oh no, I will not be judged by God.” Alastor voices his displeasure plainly. “I will not be judged by someone who made themselves the arbiter of what’s morally right or wrong while never living in the dirt with the rest of us. Only another sinner may judge me. If not you, who then? Who is qualified to judge me?”

Lucifer gapes and then closes his mouth. Something ephemeral and frail is reflected in his eyes as he looks at Alastor from across the table. “Could you…forgive me?”

“Do you really need my forgiveness?”

“I would like your forgiveness, but I don’t expect it. It’s not a requirement or anything…”

“What do you expect of me, then?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me, if you expected nothing, you wouldn’t be here. You expect something; I just don’t know what it is yet. What do you want?” Alastor asks, the ‘from me’ very much implied.

“I don’t know what I want.” Lucifer says helplessly. “I want… the pain to be gone. I want the suffering to end? I want to stop…being this way.”

Ah. So they were back to depression, were they?

“What way?” Alastor asks.

“Wallowing? Depressed. Listless, joyless.” Lucifer enumerates. “I want to stop feeling…like nothing matters. I tried to give them joy –  sinners –  I guess LuLu World was… a dud?”

“It seems fairly popular,” Alastor notes, at least from what he’s heard.

“Have you gone?” Lucifer perks up.

“No, too juvenile for my tastes.”

“Juvenile…hah. I thought, who wouldn’t like a return to…something simpler? A staple from their childhoods, at least the recent batch of sinners, I mean. Something…nice.”

“Sinners don’t need nice.” Alastor says dismissively.

“Everyone needs nice, Alastor.” Lucifer says decisively. “Even the biggest, baddest, worst piece of trash out there. Everyone yearns for…something nice. Something nice they can keep. Everyone dreams of something. Everyone wants…something.”

“And what do you want, Lucifer?” Alastor asks softly and for the longest time, Lucifer says nothing, the silence between them eaten up the vibrant sounds of the wildlife. Then he slumps in his chair and sighs.

“I want to feel like…” Lucifer trails off, eyes distant and lost, and his voice, when it finally emerges, is frail and cracked, like fine china. “Like I matter.”

Matter to whom, Alastor wonders. To the sinners – humanity at large? Or is it more personal than that; is this about his wife having left him?

“You matter to Charlie.” Alastor offers, knowing it to be true.

“Yeah…but she doesn’t need me.” Lucifer states, expression melancholy. “She’s the closest thing I have to purpose, but she won’t need me forever – and, I mean, that’s how it should be – children are meant to leave the nest.”

“Who are you without her?” Alastor inquires, having a sense where this is going.

Lucifer gasps softly, like a wounded animal. “No one.” He murmurs, quiet as a dying whisper.

“Nonsense.” Alastor rebukes him. “You’re Lucifer Morningstar.”

“Hah.”

“Fallen angel.”

Lucifer fidgets.

“Liberator of mankind.” Alastor states as plainly as he is able. “Your purpose is staring you in the face.”

“What purpose?” Lucifer huffs, dismissive, expression sinking like a torpedoed ocean liner.

“You are the King of Hell.” Alastor states gravely. “You are the sole arbiter of what should be done. You have the power, you have the means. Get your house in order. What’s stopping you?”

“I didn’t…I don’t want to rule. I don’t want to be a tyrant. I don’t want to hold my power over anyone! That’s why–”

“That is why you are content to do things from the shadows – unobserved and unappreciated?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The weather, for instance?” Alastor states. “You control the weather for everyone’s benefit and no one knows.”

“I…I just do it on a whim.” Lucifer says dismissively, seemingly embarrassed that the topic has been brought up.

“No,” Alastor says decisively. “You do it because you care. That’s more than any human ruler I know of did. That’s more than what can be said for your so-called creator, as well.” Lucifer says nothing, content to gnaw on his lower lip. “You care–“ Alastor goes on, “–but you care too much. If you cared slightly less about providing them joy and slightly more about providing them structure – like children – they’d probably be less unruly.”

“So, you what, want me to personally punish everyone?” Lucifer huffs. “Being stuck in this pit is already bad enough.”

“Oh no, it is not.” Alastor argues. “Because there are plenty of souls down here that have grabbed at power and never got punished at all.”

“Are you talking about…Overlords right now?”

“Of course I’m talking about the blasted Overlords.” Alastor rolls his eyes. Leave it to Lucifer to miss the obvious.

“Well, you are one too.” Lucifer points out.

“It was the only way,” Alastor says darkly.

“The only way to… what?”

“The only way to remain free.” Alastor states. This was Hell, after all, and in this aspect, it was no better than Earth.  “It’s eat or be eaten,” Alastor explains between bites. “And I would much prefer to eat, than be the one who gets eaten.”

“Right.” Lucifer concedes and bites into his second croissant, flaky crumbs falling all over the table.

Alastor looks at Lucifer’s despondent expression and feels an unpleasant squirming sensation in his gut. What would it cost him to just say the words, even if he doesn’t mean them? Surely it would be more expedient than watching Lucifer mope incessantly.

“Fine,” Alastor says magnanimously. “You are forgiven.”

Lucifer startles and looks up at him. “Wh–really?”

“Yes. Let bygones be bygones.”

“Are you sure you don’t hold a grudge against me for it?” Lucifer asks tentatively, voice gentle and brimming with an almost nauseating amount of concern.

“Why would I?” Alastor says, refusing to acknowledge that yes, while he may not be interested in holding a grudge much further, he is not likely to forget the incident anytime soon.

“Please don’t lie to me about that.” Lucifer implores him.

“Then you’ll just have to ask me about it tomorrow, won’t you?” Alastor says mildly, polishing off the rest of his breakfast and dabbing his mouth with the napkin. “To make sure.”

“I don’t enjoy having to do that, surely that is obvious by now?” Lucifer says imploringly.

“I have no issue with it, so why do you?” Alastor asks, annoyed at the conversation going in circles.

“Because I don’t want this to be a coercive relationship, that’s why!” Lucifer exclaims, visibly rattled.

Alastor halts and stares at his mug for a moment. His…former enemy…cares more than a friend of fifty years did. It’s a sobering thought, for all it disturbs him. Lucifer has given him more grace and consideration than Alastor was due thus far. Something inside him wants to repay the favor.

“I…had a friend once.” He directs the words at his mug, but knows Lucifer must be listening. “We were…close. I enjoyed their company.” Lucifer says nothing from across, the table, and seems to be barely breathing. “They expressed a desire for more…which I rejected.” Alastor swallows a lump in his throat. He didn’t need to say anything, there was no active compulsion forcing his mouth open, but open they did, spilling forth his secrets seemingly without his say so. “I thought after fifty years of companionship, they would respect my decision.” Alastor near chokes. “I was wrong.”

“Alastor…” Lucifer mutters gently and extends his hand across the table, stopping just shy of touching and settling down instead. Even in this, while wishing to provide comfort, Lucifer was careful not to overstep. Alastor’s brows knit as he listens to the crickets and the warbles from the swamp and attempts to gather himself.

“He– they – drugged my drink.”

“No…” Lucifer says, something aching in his voice that feels like heartbreak.

“Hah!” Alastor shakes off the useless sentiment and looks up, grinning from ear to ear, as is his custom. “Nothing happened, worry not. Well, nothing of a sexual nature, at least. Needless to say, a friendship ended that day. All for the better, I assure you. Good riddance, I say!”

Alastor’s fingers twitch against the tabletop, inching closer to Lucifer’s extended hand, but not bridging the gap.

“I’m sorry,” Lucifer says earnestly. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. It…it must have been really frightening.”

It was, but Alastor finds he cannot say it aloud. Imagining it is bad enough.

“I…I can’t even imagine what a betrayal that must have been, after fifty years…”

“Can’t you?” Alastor pivots, grasping his drink with both hands (Lucifer’s fingers twitch against the tabletop). “With your darling wife and all?”

Lucifer huffs and withdraws his hand, sitting upright once more. “That’s different. I…her leaving was…my fault.”

“Were you unfaithful?” Alastor asks, taking a sip of his now lukewarm coffee.

Lucifer looks at him and laughs in disbelief. “If course you would ask me something as inappropriate as that. And no, I wasn’t. I adored Lilith more than anything, I would never do that to her.”

Past tense. Perhaps Lucifer was coming to terms with the abandonment at last.

“How was it your fault, then?”

“Because…” Lucifer begins and then his eyes mist over, as if lost in some painful memory. “You have to understand… I was almost painfully naïve when we first met. She’d been crying, all alone up a treetop in Eden, and I, not knowing what sadness even was, but somehow, instinctually sensing her distress, appeared to her as a bird. I attempted to cheer her with song, and…it worked. She smiled at me, sniffling and reached out with a finger to caress my feathers. And I, in turn, was charmed by her loveliness. She was gentle and kind, and… I felt drawn to her. Perhaps it would have been better had I not meddled, but… I wished to know what was making her so upset, so I observed.”

“Adam, I presume?” Alastor shares his logical assumption.

“Yes.” Lucifer’s face darkens and he says the name as if it were a vicious expletive. “Adam.” He sighs and takes a fortifying swig of his coffee out of a ridiculous ducky mug that stands at complete odds with the somber conversation they are having. “It wasn’t outright violence, as that I would have intervened in, but the little things – she would share her observations with him, try to guide him to a particularly lovely spot, point out a pleasing flower or particular shape in the clouds and be dismissed every time, as if what she thought and felt mattered not a bit. He on the other hand, spent a lot of his time climbing trees to catch birds and observing his reflection in the water. When he brought her a bird with its neck snapped, all proud, she burst into tears and ran to our little clearing, carrying its broken body cradled to her breast. She had never seen death before, and that was how I was forced to take a human-like shape to comfort her. She extended the poor little bird’s body to me, as if begging me to make it well again, but…I couldn’t. I could make life, but not give it back once it was taken away.”

Imagining the proud Queen of Hell as a little child… as that’s essentially what she’d been, back at the Garden of Eden, Alastor swallows.

“I told her how sorry I was, and I held her. For hours, until she finally stopped crying. Then I dug a hole under a flowering apple tree and helped her lay the bird there. We piled on the dirt together and I told her that all things must return to dust, from whence they came. That the little bird’s song and their body would now nourish the earth and make the flowers bloom.”

That almost sounded as if… Lilith couldn’t even speak at that time. As if she communicated through gestures, and barely formed instincts.

“She tried making Adam stop. She made sure he had enough fruits to eat, so he wasn’t hungry, but he hunted for sport, snakes, birds, rodents – all of the guises I used occasionally, and every time, she would run back to our favorite tree and cry, searching for me everywhere. That was when I taught her my name, so she could at least call for me if she needed me. “

“Did she…even know how to speak?” Alastor asks, unable to hold back his tongue.

“She didn’t.” Lucifer says. “I taught her how. And she, in turn, taught Adam.”

“What a waste of effort that proved to be…”

“More than you know…” Lucifer mutters miserably. “The only thing he did after learning how was complain.”

“Yes, I have no trouble imagining that.” Alastor admits, feeling a stirring of pity for Lilith.

“And Lilith…she gave up on him. Began to resent him. She was utterly miserable. I tried offering comfort, but I’m not sure that had been wise in hindsight. One day, she… she told me she wished I had been created alongside her instead of Adam. And when she kissed me…I was so confused. See, I… I was entirely unfamiliar with anything of a sexual nature beyond the behavior of animals, and I didn’t consider myself…” Lucifer clears his throat. “I looked at her and I thought to myself that she was so lovely and…I wished to stay by her side also. So… I offered to take her beyond the Garden, into the lands that were still dangerous and unsafe. Well, unsafe for her, that is.”

“You…absconded with the first woman?”

Lucifer laughs, the sound petering out pitifully. “I suppose I did. I showed her endless plains, and forests, and rivers, and mountains, as far as the eye could see. No walls in sight, just…freedom.”

So Lucifer started with Lilith… His King had always been a chain-breaker.

“I am rambling,” Lucifer says self-consciously, and offers Alastor a watery smile. “Anyhow, that’s how it began. She knew me as a joyous being of light and comfort. After our fall… I was no longer either. She…she held out longer than could have reasonably been expected from anyone. The person she fell in love with was…just no longer there.”

Alastor frowns. “People change. We are shaped by circumstances.”

“I mean, yes, of course.” Lucifer agrees easily. “I just…I tried to give her what she wanted.”

“You think she wanted you to be pretending to be fine and dandy?” Alastor asks incisively, getting a feeling as to why their marriage failed so miserably.

“Pretending?” Lucifer asks, puzzled.

“All of this circus nonsense, making yourself into a clown, into a silly little man with a silly little stick, unassuming and non-threatening, is that what you think she wanted?”

“Look, Alastor, nobody likes spending time with people who are always in a bad mood.”

“Nobody likes to watch a person breaking into pieces and pretending to be fine either.”

“I–“ Lucifer’s mouth snaps shut at that.

“Call me presumptuous–” Alastor says pointedly, “–but I believe the issue is the fact you never accepted you changed. Not Lilith. You.”

Lucifer blinks, expression betraying confusion and upset.

“Instead of admitting to the problem, you ignored it.” Alastor finishes his coffee and deposits his empty cup onto the table before crossing his legs. “You allowed it to fester for entirely too long and now here we are.”

“Here we are?” Lucifer says with a frown.

“Yes,” Alastor says with a mild smile. “Having breakfast and reminiscing about the past like a bunch of old sops.” Lucifer snorts at that, Alastor’s remark landing as intended. “Not to belabor the point, but I believe this is what you signed up for when you demanded I hold you accountable. Since you didn’t make a deal, I get to offer unsolicited advice at my leisure. You’re welcome.”

Lucifer chuckles – a halting and incredulous sound. “Why do I get the feeling you’re taking that promise more seriously than all of our deals thus far?”

Probably because he is. Deals were always at least partly coerced. His promise, on the other hand, had been freely given.

“I am a man of my word,” Alastor says breezily, knowing it to be a half-truth at best, but Lucifer doesn’t need to know that.

“Yeah,” Lucifer says mildly. “You might be.”

“Finish your pastry.” Alastor instructs him.

“Who died and made you the boss of me?” Lucifer seems insulted.

“You did, when you almost expired in my arms. Now eat before I’m forced to masticate it for you.”

Lucifer makes a disgusted expression and stuffs the half-eaten croissant into his mouth, staring him down in annoyance.  Alastor grins at him unrepentantly – equilibrium has been restored.

Chapter Text

Lucifer chews on his croissant, giving Alastor dirty looks all the while. Alastor’s beaming smile only seems to annoy Lucifer further, but Alastor feels very disinclined to stop. Once Lucifer swallows the remainder of his lackluster breakfast, he washes it down with coffee and crosses his arms.

“Right, I should probably keep you apprised on the talent show, as Charlie assumes I’ve already told you by now.”

Oh, that nonsense again.

“Fine, apprise me.” Alastor says theatrically.

“Right,” Lucifer sobers and sits straighter in his chair. “So. We will be having three rounds.”

Three? Ugh, what kind of elaborate faff was this?

“First round will be a solo act, where all staff and guests participating can do whatever they’d like to showcase their talents – dance, sing, juggle, whatever.”

“Beware of Angel Dust, as the fellow might think it hilarious to do a sword swallowing trick with inappropriate items.” Alastor deadpans.

Lucifer’s eyes go wide and he covers his mouth to stifle a chuckle. “That, ah, has been dealt with. No lewd acts are allowed. Even if an individual’s talents lay…in that particular area. Ahem.”

Alastor gives Lucifer a pointed, almost withering look. Lucifer would know a thing or two about that, wouldn’t he?

“Anyhow,” Lucifer attempts to plow on. “As I said, the first round is solo. The second round is in pairs, and participants aren’t allowed to partner with their best friends or family, so… No Charlie and Vaggie or Charlie and I, for instance. It’s meant to encourage cooperation and foster friendship between people who don’t usually interact as much.”

“You could have just drawn lots.” Alastor points out.

“Oh, that’s what round three is for!” Lucifer exclaims, getting excited. “The lightning round – everyone draws lots and whoever you get is your partner for the last one. It will be a dance round, and the music will also be randomized, so nobody can be prepared beforehand. The point is to be spontaneous and just have fun!”

Now, while Alastor enjoys a good show, he prefers the performers to actually know what they are doing, and not be a bumbling gang of buffoons prancing about on stage.

“So, who am I not allowed to partner with for the second round?” Alastor asks.

“Oh,” Lucifer halts. “Err, maybe Niffty? I don’t know? Why?”

Ah. So his friendlessness comes in handy in situations such as these, huh.

“Were you planning on asking me to partner with you?” Alastor asks slyly.

Lucifer stares at him, unblinking, and flushes. “Ah…I’m sorry, but I’m…Already kind of partnered with someone… I mean, I promised in advance…”

Alastor blinks. Has he just humiliated himself by asking?

“No matter.” Alastor waves it away. “And who might that be?” He attempts to tease the information out of Lucifer.

“Um,” Lucifer squirms in his seat. “It’s Vaggie, actually. Since neither of us could pair up with Charlie, I thought it might be a good idea to get to know my potential future daughter-in-law?”

That was such a Lucifer thing to say, Alastor wasn’t even surprised.

“Besides, I assumed you wouldn’t want to pair up with me anyway?” Lucifer says tentatively.

“Why would you assume that?” Alastor asks, head tilted in curiosity.

“Well,” Lucifer half-stammers. “I didn’t think you would…want to associate with me. Publically.”

“I never gave it much thought.” Alastor states. “Did you presume I would be embarrassed?”

Lucifer quirks an eyebrow. “I’m not sure you’re capable of feeling shame.”

Alastor stops for a moment to savor that sharp retort and can’t help but grin, his smile extended as far as it can go. How astute of Lucifer to notice.

“Would you prefer me if I could?” Alastor leans forward in his chair, wondering whether he should play with Lucifer a bit. One of his tendrils rises from the floor and gently tugs on Lucifer’s ankle.

Lucifer startles and jumps out of his chair, then gives Alastor a scandalized look. “Hey – what – are we back to shadow hanky-panky again?”

“Are you embarrassed?”   Alastor leans back in his chair, legs crossed, his tone playful. “There’s no one here…”

Lucifer’s surprise melts away and is replaced with something more forward. “I suppose this is better than molesting me in public…”

“Do you enjoy being molested in private?” Alastor asks, now full on teasing.

“I enjoy a lot of different things in the privacy of my own rooms.” Lucifer smirks, expression turning more sultry. “Go on…”

Alastor realizes this is a perfect opportunity to solve his little sartorial conundrum – his tendrils could map out Lucifer’s form with ease, and all he would have to do was make a small notch, a tiny mark on them, barely visible to the naked eye, which he could then measure and write down everything he needed.

“I intend to.” Alastor says suggestively and uncrosses his legs with careful calculation. Lucifer stares at his lap for a moment before looking back up again. Twin tendrils rise up from the floor, emerging from Lucifer’s inanimate shadow and slowly caress a trail along his legs, like keen serpents slithering up a tree. Lucifer looks down and shivers a bit, but doesn’t move, nor does he prevent Alastor’s advances.

Alastor rises slowly out of his seat and stalks towards Lucifer, who doesn’t move from his spot, but his smug smile diminishes somewhat. “I forgot to thank you.” Alastor purrs as he comes to a halt in front of Lucifer, who is looking up at him expectantly. One of the tendrils crawls up to Lucifer’s chin and tilts it up. “Thank me?” Lucifer asks, eyes smoldering. “What for?”

Alastor smiles and leans down, savoring the fleeting panicked glance he spies, then drops a small peck on Lucifer’s right cheek. As he withdraws, he murmurs: “This is for the water.”

“Ah,” Lucifer stammers briefly. “M-my pleasure.”

The tendril stills after sliding down Lucifer’s throat and Alastor creates a small notch with measurements. Alastor brings his right hand to Lucifer’s face, trailing a finger down Lucifer’s jawline and then pushing his chin slightly to the side. “And this–” Alastor drawls, bestowing a more lingering kiss upon Lucifer’s left cheek, closer to the corner of his mouth. “–is for the breakfast.”

Lucifer swallows, but says nothing. The two tendrils snake around Lucifer, the lower one crawling around his hips, and the already marked-up one gently wrapping around his chest. Alastor decides some misdirection is in order and takes a hold of Lucifer’s chin, staring him in the eye. “And this…” He whispers against Lucifer’s lips. “…is for the Bayou.”

While his lips are melded against Lucifer’s, he constricts the two tendrils and creates notches in purple and green to mark the relevant measurements. Lucifer’s arms twitch by his sides, rising slightly into the air, but careful not to touch Alastor, who makes an appreciative noise against Lucifer’s soft, responsive lips. Finding this kind of consideration…is rare.

Alastor pulls away, breaking the kiss. His fingers trail down Lucifer’s neck and elicit a shiver before he removes them altogether. Lucifer is looking at him in something approaching disappointment.

“Is my thanks not to your liking?” Alastor asks smugly, the tendrils slowly receding to obfuscate his purpose.

“You will go to truly great lengths to avoid labeling this as flirting, won’t you?”

Alastor’s eyebrows hike up. Well, if Lucifer chooses to interpret it that way, who is Alastor to stop him?

“Why, would you like me to continue?” Alastor needles shamelessly.

“Would I be complaining if I didn’t want you to continue?” Lucifer graces him with an exasperated eyeroll. “Dumbass.”

“I’m afraid I’m not in the mood for more, at the moment.” Alastor states, more out of need to be contrary than anything else.

“It’s going to bite you in the ass one of these days...” Lucifer warns him with a mild smile.

“What will?” Alastor inquires, content to play along while his tendril take one final measurement, squeezing around Lucifer’s waist.

“Arousing me only to leave me unsatisfied.” Lucifer explains, eyes turning crimson and gold once more.

Alastor can’t help the sharp inhalation of breath at seeing those eyes again, nor can he prevent the stirring of interest transpiring below the belt. Why do those accursed eyes have such a profound effect on him? Is it because they are one of his King’s more demonic attributes? He could drown in the molten gold in that gaze…

With the final measurement taken, the tendrils withdraw, sinking once more into the shadows stretching across the floor. Alastor’s purpose is done, and he should be moving away, but finds himself fixed to the spot.

“I have noticed…a pattern.” Lucifer states with a curious inflection.

“A pattern to what?” Alastor asks, deeply distracted by the crimson and brilliant gold in Lucifer’s eyes.

“The things that get you going.” Lucifer stares at him, a lazy grin blooming on his face.

Alastor scoffs. “My arousal is mercurial and outright nonexistent for the most part.”

“Oh, so you haven’t noticed that you seem to have certain…preferences?”

Alastor frowns, breaking the spell. “What preferences?”

Lucifer outright giggles at him, looking at him with bemusement. “You don’t believe me. Hmm… Shall I show you?”

“Show me what?” Alastor takes an unconscious step back.

“A special demonstration.” Lucifer says with a shit-eating grin. “They say a picture is worth a thousand words.”

“If this is the entertainment you seek, I can hardly stop you.” Alastor says nonchalantly.

Lucifer’s laughter turns demonic and Alastor’s midsection floods with warmth.

“Let’s start with the hat, shall we?” Lucifer says mildly and floats it to his vacated chair. “Since you seemed personally offended by it before.”

This isn’t so awful, Alastor thinks. He’s seen Lucifer without his accursed hat plenty of times before.

“Next…hmm…yes, I believe a sartorial adjustment is in order.” Lucifer reveals his gleaming sharp teeth and snaps his fingers. His entire ensemble turns a vivid crimson with white piping around the collar, mimicking Alastor’s own coat. Lucifer’s vest turns red, the stripes now a sharp black. The only things that remain unchanged are the golden chains adorning his tails and vest. Oh, and the boots, which were black to begin with.

Alastor stares.

“You said you liked the sight of me in your colors, Alastor…” Lucifer purrs. “What do you think?” Alastor thinks it’s a vast improvement, but cannot find the words to express his sentiments. “Cat got your tongue, Al?” Lucifer teases, deeply amused. “Ah, still no reaction? I suppose multiple factors are at play… let’s see, what else floats your boat…”

Alastor spares a look into Lucifer’s demonic eyes and regrets it, because he feels pinned under that penetrating stare.

“Ah, yes…you seem to have developed a certain…fascination with my more…demonic aspects.” Lucifer says lightly and there’s a whip-crack of sound as his slender barbed tail appears behind him, followed by the crimson of his horns emerging from his forehead. Alastor gasps at the sight, feeling himself respond to it, quite against his will. He remains rooted to the floor, hands clenched against his sides, his entire body taut like a stretched-out, tense wire.

“Still resisting, huh?” Lucifer looks at him like the incarnation of sin. “I don’t know whether to applaud your mental fortitude or laugh at your stubbornness.”

Alastor grits his teeth at the insult – how dare Lucifer toy with him?

“I suppose I should play up what you truly want, then?” Lucifer taunts him, confident and predatory. Alastor swallows, apprehension rising in his gut along with the arousal. Before his eyes, Lucifer’s wings unfurl, extending fully and for a moment, Alastor assumes Lucifer has taken flight again, but is shocked when he realizes that Lucifer’s feet are still firmly on the ground – his heels unchanged. Heart pounding in his throat, Alastor looks up and Lucifer is now taller than him, just enough that Alastor has to direct his gaze upwards. His mouth falls open a crack.

“Is this what you want, darling?” Lucifer says, his voice still melodious, but now underscored with a crackling depth that feels like molten lava in Alastor’s veins. “Do you want to be broken in by your King?”

A pathetic, mewling moan spills from Alastor’s lips as his trousers tighten uncomfortably.

“Look at you…so desperate for my attention.” Lucifer hums, head tilted as he gives Alastor an appraising glance from head to toe. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you’re trying to provoke me into taking you outright.”

Alastor’s eyes go wide. What…what did Lucifer mean by that?

“Would you even resist me if I started undressing you now?” Lucifer asks slyly and Alastor is so pathetically grateful that all of the questions have been answered for the day, because he honestly fears the answer he would have given. “Such a proud demon you are,” Lucifer says with a filthy purr. “You would rather deny yourself the pleasure than give in and ask for what you want?”

“I want nothing.” Alastor manages to say.

Lucifer throws his head back in laughter, his golden hair fluttering around his face and Alastor wants to kiss his neck, bite him–

“You want me.” Lucifer says decisively.

“What I want is immaterial.” Alastor says firmly, pulling his jacket down to give his hands something to do. “We have a deal.” He points out. “Are you lonely? Are you in need of entertainment from this sinner, your Majesty?”

Lucifer’s chuckle is demonic, like the richest coffee traveling down Alastor’s throat.

“Do you know what would entertain me, Alastor?” Lucifer asks, his stare keen and merciless in its intensity. “Bending you over this table, chaining you to it, and fondling your cute little tail until you whimper and beg for me to fuck you.”

The picture Lucifer paints is deeply humiliating and thoroughly unsavory, but for all that, his cock throbs and Alastor can feel his knees growing weak. Is this what his sovereign wants? Would Alastor’s degradation truly please him, or was this simply another one of Lucifer’s little mind games?

“My Lord…” Alastor attempts to speak, but the words run dry.

“Do you want that, my precious little buck?”

Alastor burns with humiliation at the appellation.

“Answer me, you insolent thing.” Lucifer snarls softly, staring him down.

“No.” Alastor says decisively. He doesn’t want it, because alongside what’s left of his innocence, he’d be stripped of his dignity entirely, and that was unacceptable.

“Hm.” Lucifer makes a speculative noise. “Fine.” And with that, he moves away, breaking the hypnotic sway of his eyes.

Alastor groans, his erection painful at this point. Why isn’t Lucifer just taking what he wants, if that’s what’s been on his mind? He could enact their deal a million different ways, turn Alastor into his thrall completely, have him kissing his feet if he so wanted, but instead he hasn’t as much as touched Alastor during this entire exchange – not once.

To turn respecting Alastor’s private space into torment, only Lucifer was capable of such a thing.

“Perhaps this is the wrong approach…” Lucifer muses out loud, his wings folding away and out of sight. Alastor cannot help but stare at him, dressed in crimson finery, tall and proud, a perfect image of what a ruler should be. What would have happened had Lucifer truly gone though with his threat? Would Alastor have had the wherewithal to say no to him, or would he have swallowed any protest in the face of Lucifer’s power?

The clothing covering Lucifer shimmers and disappears, reforming into a facsimile of Alastor’s usual shirt. Lucifer’s horns and tail melt away, and he reverts back to his more compact form, turning to Alastor with a coquettish smile, one of his shoulders on brazen display, along with the livid bruises Alastor left on his legs only yesterday.

“You haven’t healed them…” Alastor blurts out.

“That would rather have defeated the purpose, don’t you think?” Lucifer says shyly. Alastor’s cock throbs in his trousers, straining against the seams. “I told you I wanted to feel you for a week…”

Alastor staggers forward a step, then hisses at the betrayal his own limbs have committed against him.

“I’m lonely, Alastor…” Lucifer says with a meticulously crafted little whine. “Why won’t you fuck me?”

It’s a lie, Alastor knows that much, a perfectly staged tableau of pure debauchery tailor-made for maximum effect, but he wants so badly to give in, to cross the distance between them, bury his claws into Lucifer’s golden locks and taste the coffee on his tongue.

“Do I have to beg you?” Lucifer looks at him with a pout that must be a falsehood, as it stands in stark contrast to the sway of his hips as he approaches Alastor, his pale human-like feet whispering through the grass of the Bayou.

Beg Alastor? No. How backward that would be…

With an inarticulate snarl, Alastor surges forward and captures Lucifer’s mouth, both of his hands tangling in Lucifer’s silken hair. Lucifer’s answering moan feels genuine and Alastor is startled when Lucifer grabs at his shoulders and hoists himself up, wrapping his thighs around Alastor’s waist. With an agonized groan, Alastor licks into Lucifer’s scalding mouth and his right hand grabs at Lucifer’s smooth thigh, fingertips sinking into the firm but yielding muscle.

Even as he licks at Lucifer’s coffee tainted mouth, Alastor knows he’s been played – Lucifer having used everything he’s learned about Alastor against him. He growls and tightens his grasp, both on Lucifer’s hair and against his thigh. If its bruises he wants, Alastor will provide. At the very least, Lucifer seems just as affected, grinding against Alastor with reckless abandon – breathless, dissolute moans spilling out of his mouth in-between kisses. Alastor’s mind supplies the image of Lucifer sprawled out against that white rug Alastor shredded to bits and he gets the urge to do the same to his own bed, with Lucifer on his back, whining for him.

Alastor staggers in the vague direction of his bed, carrying Lucifer along with him.

“Mmm, fuck–“ Lucifer swears against his mouth. “Please–“

“Shut your insolent mouth–” Alastor growls and nips Lucifer’s lower lip, careful not to break skin. “–I’m getting to it.” Lucifer twines his arms around Alastor’s neck and squeezes his midsection after grinding his hips into Alastor’s. “Wretch,” Alastor says, claws raking through Lucifer’s soft hair.

They are almost at the foot of the bed when there’s a resounding knock against Alastor’s door.

Lucifer freezes in his grasp, thighs constricting around Alastor’s midsection, both of them staring at the direction of the noise. Alastor’s shadow explodes out of him with a snarl, ready to destroy the interloper on the other side of his door.

“Uhh, it’s me, boss.” Husker’s voice reaches from beyond the door, projected in his deep baritone. “Charlie told me you had some business to discuss?”

Alastor directs his murderous glare from the door to the wretch in his arms. The full weight of the accusation leveled at his meddlesome spawn is redirected at Lucifer. Charlotte Morningstar, the nosiest girl in the entirety of Hell!

Damage control.

“My bathroom. Now.” Alastor instructs Lucifer in hushed tones, who nods at him, flushed but compliant and gently lowers himself on the ground before looking down at Alastor’s sartorial mishap and waving a hand in the air, creating an illusion that nothing is amiss. Alastor looks down and were he not currently supremely uncomfortable and inconvenienced by said erection, he would assume nothing was there. Lucifer spares him a smug glance before scarpering off to the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

Alastor takes a fortifying breath and all but stomps to the door to his rooms, none too pleased about having to deal with this untimely interruption. He flings the doors open and stares at his irksome thrall.

“Husker.” He drawls, anger unmistakable in his otherwise smooth tone. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”

Husk notes his annoyance and takes a step back, running a nervous hand through the fur covering his neck. “I, ah, Charlie said you needed to discuss restocking the bar with me?”

“I told her that I would find you myself, but I suppose she took it to mean I was in dire need of a messenger.” Alastor growls.

“Uh, got ya.” Husker says with a nervous grin, eyes darting towards the room for a moment before refocusing on Alastor’s unpleasant smile. “I will make myself scarce, then.” He says wisely, already backing away. Husker was perceptive when he chose to crawl out of the bottle long enough to do so.

“Yes, you do that.” Alastor says darkly. “Oh, and Husker?”

“Y-yes, boss?”

“Never darken my doorstep again, unless someone is literally dying?”

“…and needs to be finished off…” Husker mutters under his breath and then looks at Alastor and confirms more loudly: “Roger that. Won’t happen again.”

“Bye Husker,” Alastor sing-songs, full of undisguised menace.

The second Husk hunches in on himself and all but flees down the corridor, Alastor retreats back into the safety of his rooms, slamming the door behind him with a poorly suppressed growl. That meddlesome daughter of his, she just had to stick her nose where it didn’t belong! Even after Alastor’s insistence that the matter didn’t need immediate attending to!

At least his stubborn erection has flagged, providing some respite from the painful sensation. Now that his brain isn’t immediately assaulted by the taste and feel of Lucifer, his mind clears marginally. What is he even doing, losing control this way?

The door to his bathroom creaks open, Lucifer peeking out carefully. “Is he gone?” He whispers.

“Yes, he’s gone,” Alastor sighs. “And so is my mood.”

Lucifer dissolves the illusion he’s placed over Alastor crotch and pads up to him on quiet feet. “Ah, what a shame.” His tone implies disappointment, but Lucifer doesn’t seem overly upset, not the way he’d been after they’d gotten interrupted by Michael.

“You aren’t going to try and change my mind?” Alastor asks, dubious.

Lucifer gives him a perturbed look. “How many times will I have to tell you that I have no intention of forcing you?”

“Oh, and what was that earlier?” Alastor needles him, but there’s no anger behind it. If anything, it’s a half-hearted remark.

“I…” Lucifer huffs and trails off, then walks to the bed and sits down, legs dangling off the side of the bed. “Look, I was trying to figure out what works for you.”

“What works for me?” Alastor asks, befuddled. Lucifer gives him a mild, sympathetic look and pats the bed, inviting Alastor to sit down. Reluctantly, Alastor obeys and takes a seat on the opposite side, one of his knees folded on the bed. “Yes, what works for you. Sex is…supposed to be fun.” Lucifer explains, his expression earnest. “Not everything is going to work. Some people like gentle touch, some prefer more rough treatment. Some hate having certain parts of their body touched, and go insane with pleasure at having another area caressed, or licked, or nipped. There is so much to discover, and since you don’t enjoy touch to begin with… it means I have to be extra careful not to do something you might dislike, and try really hard to find ways to make this work for you. You know – visual cues. Behavior. Taste, if need be.”

“You’ve been…trying to…tailor yourself.” Alastor attempts to wrap his mind around this information. “To me.”

Lucifer rolls his eyes. “It’s called being a considerate partner. It’s not like I’m fundamentally altering who I am just to please you, you narcissistic prick.”

Alastor blinks several times, still trying to parse what he’s heard.

“As I said, sex is supposed to be enjoyable.” Lucifer reiterates. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“Not in my experience,” Alastor says before he can think better of it. Back home, sex certainly wasn’t presented as an enjoyable activity, at least not for the person on the receiving end. There were just too many women being forced into it, either by threats of violence, or by financial circumstances. Too many instances that he’s seen of women just trying to make the best out of an awful situation.

Lucifer looks at him, a look of gently scrutiny on his face. “Has someone…mistreated you before?”

“Sexually?” Alastor asks. “No. Vox tried, not that it worked out for him.” Ah, damn. All his efforts to be circumspect earlier and he’d just blurted it out in the end.

“Nobody develops an aversion this strong unless something bad happened…” Lucifer says softly. “I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with not liking sex to begin with, but you seem to despise touch in general and… ok, fine, that can also be a preference.” Lucifer backpedals, clearly grasping for the right meaning he’s trying to convey. “Look, I may be reaching, and feel free to tell me to go to Hell, but you don’t seem just like you don’t enjoy it… clearly there are certain circumstances that enable you to partake and have fun, but… it seems to me there’s something twisted up in it.”

“Like what?” Alastor asks, frowning deeply.

“Like…” Lucifer says hesitantly. “Like some kind of trauma. I’m not asking you to tell me!” Lucifer exclaims defensively, hands up in the air in a gesture that’s meant to convey he means no harm. “I only meant that… you seem to have issues with…power dynamics. And I may not know why, but I want to avoid anything that might upset you.”

“Power dynamics?” Alastor asks, genuinely not understanding.

“Yeah, well… you… you seem to respect me a bit… too much at times? But also abhor the idea of me reciprocating.”

“Reciprocating what?”

“Well… uh. Switching.” Lucifer says, and only receives a flat, uncomprehending stare for his troubles. “I mean, the idea of me taking you for a change. And if you never want to – that’s also ok! I mean… I just want to know whether that’s because you’d hate it, or out of some fear that it would be bad? Because if you’d hate it, I will drop it and never mention it again. It would just be a pity never to try, I guess. That’s all I meant.”

“Would you truly drop it if I said no?” Alastor asks, voice full of undisguised suspicion.

“Of course I would,” Lucifer says, visibly insulted. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s just basic respect!”

Vox hadn’t.

But Lucifer wasn’t Vox, mercifully. Alastor couldn’t even calculate the damage Lucifer’s betrayal might cause him if it ever came to it.

Would he enjoy…submitting to Lucifer? Could he allow it without flying into an outright panic at being so helpless? Alastor didn’t know. He didn’t hate the idea itself, but he hated what it represented – weakness, vulnerability, placing himself in a position where he had no control. It wasn’t hatred per se, but rather a blind, all-consuming fear.

Alastor sighs. “Ask me tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to force an answer.” Lucifer reminds him, gentle and considerate.

“Well, you might have to,” Alastor says, irritated. “Because I’m not sure I could even formulate an answer otherwise.”

Lucifer remains quiet, something in his countenance softening. “I see.”

Alastor’s ardor has vanished completely during the course of their conversation, and he feels his desire for company dwindling alongside it.

“I should probably go…” Lucifer says softly, the crimson shirt transforming once more into his full outfit in a wash of crimson sparkles.

“Yes, I believe that may be best.” Alastor says quietly, suddenly wrung out by the interaction.

Lucifer offers a sympathetic smile and gets up, heading back into the Bayou to fetch his hat. Alastor’s eyes go wide. The reminder of their breakfast is still on the table – two plates, two cups, and Lucifer’s hat on the chair… was any of it visible from Husker’s vantage point?

Fuck.

“I’ll… see you tomorrow?” Lucifer asks tentatively.

“It’s your turn to make coffee.” Alastor points out.

“I could just bring it over,” Lucifer says mildly. “You don’t have to suffer my presence just to enjoy the coffee.”

Alastor wonders when he stopped suffering it in the first place.

“I can’t promise breakfast.” Alastor says blithely.

Lucifer chuckles.“You don’t have to.” And with a snap of his fingers, the plates disappear, and so does Lucifer’s mug. A swirling portal rimmed with gold opens in the Bayou. Lucifer looks at him, expression soft and says: “You don’t have to do anything.”

Before Alastor can come up with a response, he’s gone.

The air fills with the sounds of crickets and frog croaks.

Alastor grips his ankle, staring at the floor.

What if…

What if I want to?

Chapter Text

Alastor uses his afternoon to get all of the measurements down and make a new, more cleaned up and concise sketch of the dress, which he takes to his tailor, who narrows his eyes at it and gives him a shrewd look. The ratchety demon wisely decides not to comment on how out of character this recent commission is (which is why Alastor appreciates his business), and informs him the dress will be finished in three weeks. When Alastor frowns, inquiring as to why, the demon informs him that Alastor is, in fact, not his only client, and that there’s only one of him – and as such – he cannot work any faster, even with six hands.

Alastor growls lowly in his throat and whips out a contract for one of his thralls who used to be a seamstress in life but has since turned exotic dancer and hands the ownership to the old tailor. “There,” Alastor says snidely. “Now you won’t ever have an excuse as to why my orders take that long.”

The tailor sniffs, casts doubt over whether the woman could be of any use, but tentatively knocks the time to two weeks. Alastor reminds him that he will be by to inspect progress (read – breathe down his neck), and leaves the project in his capable (and extortionate) hands.

As he strolls down the street just to show his face and soak up some of the scurrying fear from the lesser sinners in the streets, his mind idles, going back to the events of this morning. It still disturbs him, just how effortlessly Lucifer can read him, including things about Alastor that he himself is only tangentially aware of at best. Alastor would have denied it vehemently if asked whether he wanted Lucifer, but the fact of the matter is – he seems to be frighteningly inaccurate at assessing his desires as of late. Certainly, the chief among his desires is still the one for his freedom, but he’s forced to admit, however reluctantly, that there may be other things aside from carnage that he might, on occasion, like to indulge in. Lucifer was, after all, a delightful dance partner – intuitive and graceful. The fact said traits extended past simply dancing was immaterial.

Damn him. Lucifer was right.

Alastor did want him in his bed.

The revelation was both unprecedented and unwelcome. Alastor knew from past experience that sexual entanglements invariably ended in disappointment the moment they stopped being perfectly transactional. The one who started desiring more was the loser. It was a good thing then that Lucifer was the one initiating most of the time, with a considerably higher drive than Alastor. If there was a desperate party here, it wasn’t Alastor – not with Lucifer very nearly throwing himself at him every chance he got. It would be fine, Alastor assured himself. Lucifer was almost pathologically obsessed with consent, which meant he would respect refusal that Alastor was guaranteed to employ more often than not. What a fool Lucifer was, to not be pressing the clear advantage he had.

Well, that was no skin off of Alastor’s back.

He returns to the hotel and heads for his broadcasting tower, where he finds Charlie’s quaintly illustrated brief with pointers and annotations taped to the door. Ah well, it was best to get this out of the way. He reads the brief and already knows there’s no way he will broadcast it exactly as it was written, no matter how darling Charlie may be.

He flicks on his broadcasting equipment and settles comfortably into his chair. The static crackles in the air as all of the radio receivers in the hotel flare to life. He stretches out to various cracks down his spine and taps his microphone.

An introductory jingle plays, just as is customary for his tamer broadcasts, and he takes a deep breath just before he goes live, diaphragm held tight as he speaks into the microphone with all the flair of a million broadcasts he has under his belt by now.

“Good evening sinners!” He greets smoothly. “It is nine o’clock on the dot!” Cue the sound of a majestic clock striking nine times. “May I have everyone’s attention for a moment?” The sound of pre-recorded oohs and ahhs fills the air. “I have a very special announcement to make this fine evening!” A wolf-whistle joins the tapestry of his broadcast. “Yes, isn’t it exciting? Under the sponsorship of our very own Princess, Charlotte Morningstar, I as your humble Radio host am pleased to announce a very special event!”

He plays a track filled with cheers and licks his lips as he consults the brief.

“Exactly a month from now, the Hotel will be hosting our very own talent show! An evening full of thrills that all of our guests and staff are heartily encouraged to participate in – yes – that includes you! Ha ha! Now, I can already hear you ‘Oh Alastor, but what should I do? I’m afraid of performing in public!’ and to that I say – nonsense, my dear! Everyone has a talent! Whether it be singing, dancing, or like that one fellow who could fart la Marseillaise, I bet you too have something special you could unleash upon your unsuspecting (and captive) audience!”

Riotous clapping erupts suddenly.

“Now, settle down, settle down – let me explain the format of this exciting affair! There will be three rounds – the first is the aforementioned solo performance; the second is a duo – you have two weeks to find another participant from the Hotel – and enlist their help! After that, you have an additional two weeks to prepare your act – so act quickly, ha ha ha, or all the talented partners might be gone!”

A shocked woman’s gasp is audible.

“And lastly, round three – anything goes! Chaos! Mayhem! All participants shall draw lots and be assigned a random partner – so better dust off and shine your dance shoes, my darlings, as you will need them! This last round isn’t graded on artistic merit but enthusiasm, so you don’t even have to put in the effort, isn’t that lovely?”

Enthusiastic cheers erupt in the broadcast.

“Ha ha! How fun!” Alastor exclaims, feeling nothing of the sort. Well… people failing miserably and bringing public shame and ridicule upon themselves might be fun… Certainly for him.

“All participants get to assess the other performances on a scale from one to ten, and naturally, you can’t give yourself a ten!”

Booing cries echo in his booth.

“There, there – I’ve saved the best for last – mark 9 o’clock on your dance cards moving forward – as we will be having daily broadcasts from now on – think of it as the evening news, just for all things Hotel related! And to commemorate the occasion, we will be taking music requests to be played after the announcement segment is done – a box marked as such has been set up in the lobby – simply write down the name of the artist and the song title – legibly, if I might add – and if I like your suggestions, it will air for all of us at the Hotel to enjoy!”

Riotous cheers erupt once more.

“Also, rude suggestions shall be promptly cremated and I will come deal with you personally. Ha ha! What a joy!”

Canned laughter lingers in the air.

“Well, thank you all for tuning in – feel free to grab a late snack or a glass of your favorite poison – and relax to our first musical request by none other than our resident redeemer – Charlie Morningstar! Without further ado – I give you ‘Way Back Home’ by Bob Crosby and the Bob Cats!”

That said, he turns off the microphone, and then seamlessly segues into the requested song – at least it’s just sappy and not offensive unlike some of the requests he fears he will be getting in the upcoming days (or weeks).

He recalled Bob Crosby as the considerably lesser known younger brother of Bing Crosby, but apparently the fellow had grown into his own right after Alastor’s untimely demise. He’d kept up with the music scene of New Orleans, and had been very pleased with the music offerings of the Bob Cats. It healed his nostalgia for a while… until he fully acclimated to Hell.

He’s missed the broadcasts, truth be told. They’d been some of his favorite memories from back home, along with the music and the bustling night life. He’d loved the crowds, the smoky atmosphere, the heave and crush of bodies on the narrow dance floors. In that throng of people, it was easier to feel safe as it became harder to pick him out of the crowd. The less respectable places had more variety in color – and his skin didn’t stand out as much. There was freedom in that anonymous, inebriated crowd. He misses the vibrant atmosphere of those glorious yesteryears and knows that moment in time has passed. There will always be drunk crowds and dancing bodies, but they won’t smell like cheap tobacco, smuggled rum and whisky, nor will they dance to the greats of his era.

At least in his tower, he can play whatever he likes, recreating his delightfully well-spent youth at least in memory – just like Lucifer filled the Bayou with scents and sounds, giving back something Alastor had almost forgotten – a small comfort that reminded him of home.

Perhaps…treating Lucifer to a taste of his home wouldn’t be so bad. Since he already enjoyed his maman’s coffee, maybe he would like a sample of her cooking? Alastor, for all he tried, never managed to fully replicate her flavors, but he came pretty darn close with age and practice. He wished he’d had more time with her. He’d moved out at seventeen to earn a living and support her, but after that night at nineteen, when he’d committed inexplicable shadowy mass murder, he’d limited his visits, because he could feel deep down in his bones that she would disapprove of his actions, despite it clearly being self-defense.

Alastor had never been particularly good at turning the other cheek.

So… the dress was in the works. Alastor pondered how the night might go – he would deliver it personally, of course. They could have a light dinner first? Out in the Bayou, where it was comfortable and they were unlikely to be disturbed by anyone… Hell lacked pretty locales, so even an over-active swamp probably counted as beautiful, even to people who didn’t grow up around one.

The glittering fireflies were surprisingly soothing.

As the song plays, Alastor closes his eyes, lounging in his chair, legs propped up on his table, crossed at the ankles.

Unheard by anyone in the isolation of his broadcasting room, he croons along:

“Don't know why I left the homestead
I really must confess
I'm a weary exile
Singing my song of loneliness…”

The images of his old life come flooding back, edited in his mind like a highlight reel – the quiet mornings with maman – running through the Bayou with a reed switch in his hand – sitting down in church and only thinking about lunch afterwards – the group of friends that got him into dancing and cinema – his first job at the slaughterhouse that taught him much… He’d been good at it since he wasn’t squeamish about blood and gore.

The gators swarming around a fresh kill.

The cypress sapling growing out of his father’s carcass must be a grown tree by now.

His mother’s headstone.

Loving wife and mother. Died of tuberculosis far too young for Alastor’s taste – he’d been twenty five, and already had a kill-count of over a dozen, and busily stalking new prey. That particular bastard got his life extended by a month by virtue of Alastor having to take care of his mother’s affairs and dealing with the sale of his childhood home.

The wretch died whimpering, lying in his own piss, crying for his own mother. Alastor was so angered by it that he cleaved his neck nearly in two, killing him instantly instead of letting him suffer as he intended.

The later victims he savored more – much more.

He smiles indulgently and breathes a sigh of relief as the song ends. He takes his microphone from the desk and exclaims jubilantly: “Now, wasn’t that wonderful, folks? I certainly enjoyed it! Now, I must bid you all a very fond farewell – good night, dear listeners – don’t let the bed bugs bite!” He laughs heartily into the microphone. “And in case they do – notify our wonderful housekeeper Niffty – she will have that sorted for you in a flash!”

Then he cuts his microphone and plays a music box lullaby.

With a pleased stretch, he takes his legs off the table and gets up. He walks to his window and stares out at Pentagram City, all a-twinkle below them.

It’s not New Orleans, but it is home.

The broadcast ends without his input. He stays in his dark tower in silence for a while longer.

When Alastor comes to next morning, he detects the faint scent of coffee.

He presses the heel of his palm into his eye and groans as he throws the covers off of himself, half-stumbling out of bed. Has Lucifer been by?

Is he still here?

Why hasn’t he woken Alastor up?

He grabs his house coat and drapes himself in it, then shuffles along blearily, scanning his surroundings for any trace of blinding white. The clock on his wall reveals it’s barely past seven in the morning. As if on instinct, he turns his gaze towards his Bayou patio and dining area.

On his otherwise empty table, there is a silver carafe, releasing fragrant steam into the air. Following its siren call, Alastor meanders to the table and tucked under the carafe is a note with familiar golden scrawl: ‘Good morning – as promised. No time today, enjoy without me.” This time, there was no signature, Lucifer apparently confident that Alastor would know who the gift was from.

He conjures his mug, pours Lucifer’s coffee into it so it’s two-thirds full and grumbles at the early hour. What was Lucifer so busy with that he had to be up this early, brew coffee, and then not have the courtesy to even greet him? Not to mention the fact that he felt free to just drop by uninvited now – whether in person, or just by delivering things to Alastor’s rooms. Alastor blows across the dark surface of the beverage, irritated.

Why is Lucifer being so maddening?

And what did he mean by having no time? It’s not like he was performing any kingly duties, as far as Alastor was aware. Lucifer was probably moping around in his workshop, wasting his time on nonsense, as usual. Alastor can vividly imagine him, hunched over his cluttered workbench, fiddling away on a recent rubbery contraption, adding to the clutter in his depressing little den, desperate to run away from his responsibilities as always. It angers him, and he’s half-tempted to pour the coffee away, but then tries to remember that it’s not the coffee’s fault, and that it would be wasteful to do so. Instead, he takes a sip and the hot liquid fills his mouth with its perfect flavor, making him groan appreciatively. Lucifer may be a questionable ruler at best, but his coffee was beyond reproach… Mollified despite himself, Alastor puts on some music as he gets ready for his day, the mug never far from his lips.

And if several times he recalls Lucifer’s lips pouring said coffee into his mouth, it’s only a minor irritant. He’s free for the morning, and doesn’t have to lift a damned finger.

On his second cup of coffee, he notices the carafe is keeping it warm. His heart rate speeds up.

Why is Lucifer doing this? What benefit is there in being so pleasant this consistently? What are his aims – because Alastor knows there’s nothing to be gained. He isn’t the type to soften his heart for another if they are nice to him. Especially when he knows the person to be so powerful they could explode Alastor into a fine red mist on a whim.

Staying in his room is doing him no favors, he realizes – they are now too full of memories that involve Lucifer – the golden chains pinning him to the bed – the whisky – the blood – vomit – tears –

–soft scales resting against his breastbone.

Lucifer looming over him, without his pitiful disguise, unabashedly demonic in his full glory.

Everywhere he looks, he feels his presence.

In his parlor.

In his bathroom.

In the Bayou, on his knees, infusing the illusion with life.

Every time Alastor closes his eyes, he can see the crimson and the gold of Lucifer’s, haunting him.

He finishes the rest of his coffee in a long gulp, and his mind supplies the rustle of feathers – the feel of soft lips upon his own – the slide of Lucifer’s tongue.

Fuck.

He drops the cup unceremoniously against the table and burns Lucifer’s note into a crisp.

Right now, Alastor would rather be anywhere else.

He all but flees his rooms in a swirl of inky black shadows and reconstitutes near the renovated bar. The moment Husker sees him, Alastor can tell the cat’s fur bristles. Good, he can still set Husk’s teeth on edge – how gratifying.

“Morning, boss.” Husker greets him, wary and apprehensive as he wipes a spill on the countertop caused by one of the new arrivals, a rat-looking creature who squeaked upon seeing Alastor and made himself scarce. Smart fellow.

“Good morning, Husker!” Alastor says with a deeply unpleasant grin. He needs to relieve his stress, and Husker is a convenient target.

“I see your mood hasn’t improved since yesterday…” Husk mutters as he flings the rag over his shoulder. Alastor’s grin turns smug. Ah, he’s so pleased that his pact with Husker included the clause of ‘taking the shirt off his back’ as the deal took that quite literally to mean the man was never allowed another shirt. Alastor knew Husker absolutely hated revealing more of his feline form, as well as the ongoing humiliation of having to parade everywhere like this. Mercifully for the old gambler, none of the fools at the Hotel had managed to suss out how much it bothered him – his poker face was admittedly pretty good. He compensated by being an absolute sourpuss, though, much to Alastor’s amusement.

“Oh, I’d say it’s improving by the minute!” Alastor laughs nastily, enjoying Husker’s visible discomfort.

“Is this about the bar?” Husker asks tentatively, clearly trying to get business out of the way so he could get rid of Alastor as soon as possible.

“Naturally,” Alastor says breezily, leaning comfortably against his staff, talons clicking against the metal menacingly. “What else would it be about?”

“I don’t know,” Husker says cagily as he shifts from foot to foot. “Maybe it was about something else…”

“Like what?” Alastor asks with a demented grin, tilting his head sideways in a way he knows for certain others  tend to find disconcerting in the extreme.

Husker’s fur bristles in alarm and he averts his gaze, signaling submission.

“I’m not stupid enough to say anything…” He mutters, grabbing a glass to polish.

“What is there to say?” Alastor inquires, trying to suss out exactly what Husker has seen.

Husk then looks him straight in the eye, frowning deeply. “Are you sure that’s smart? I mean…if Charlie finds out…”

“Finds out what?”

“That you’re-ah, conducting business with–” Husk wisely omits with whom. “–early in the morning?”

Ah, so he has seen it. How unfortunate.

“Since when was my business any of yours, Husker?”

Husk slumps, clearly unwilling to spar with him this morning. Even his ears flatten. “Look, boss, I ain’t gonna pry, and I can keep my mouth shut – you know that–”

“Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming?” Alastor says sharply.

Husk visibly cringes. “I just don’t wanna see Charlie get hurt.”

“Why would she?” Alastor asks, now genuinely irked. He has no designs on the little fool anymore now that he has potentially secured a much bigger catch. As far as Alastor is concerned, she has served her purpose and now simply awaits the perfect opportunity to fill a favor of his devising.

“Just…I don’t want to see anyone get burned, is all.” Husker says in an attempt to keep the peace.

Burned. Hah! Husker is worried for Charlie, who is perfectly safe. He also seems worried about Lucifer, as if Alastor can do any meaningful damage to him.

“I’d worry about your own furry hide if I were you, Husker.” Alastor purrs.

Husk bares his teeth in an ineffectual threatening gesture, but then manages to compose himself. “I always do.” He slumps further, shoulders hunching as he admits to being a coward. Good. He’s right where he’s supposed to be.

“Glad we’re understood.” Alastor stands upright, satisfied with his victory. “Now, about that liquor…”

Chapter Text

Alastor isn’t sure what he expected to happen, but Lucifer doesn’t find him that day. That means three questions wasted, at least, which is a relief.

He makes coffee the next morning, fully expecting Lucifer to find him for his portion, but after an hour or so, Alastor realizes Lucifer might have meant ‘not having to do anything’ literally. What if he doesn’t show up at all? Alastor had cleaned out the carafe Lucifer had left in his quarters and refilled it with his coffee to keep it warm.

With the talent show in less than a month, he should probably start thinking about what to perform… He summons his piano and practices for about an hour, going through his modest repertoire. After he runs out of songs he’s confident performing, he improvises for a while, his mind idling. What was Lucifer busy with? Alastor had seen some papers on his desk previously…perhaps Lucifer was finally doing his duty to the realm. Did that mean that his words penetrated Lucifer’s angelic skull and jarred him out of his millennia long stupor?

A glance at his clock reveals it’s eleven in the morning. Perhaps he should take the coffee to Lucifer himself.

Was Lucifer angry with him? Is that why he hasn’t shown up in two days?

No, Alastor shakes off the intrusive thought. Lucifer didn’t appear irate when they last parted – merely disappointed. Alastor has assumed the disappointment stemmed from being interrupted by Husker, as that had cooled his ardor… What if…what if Lucifer was upset about something else?

Alastor’s fingers halt upon the piano keys.

He doesn’t understand it. Was this about their final discussion? Alastor’s heart picks up speed as he thinks on it once again. Lucifer expressed the desire to…

To sodomize him.

Alastor feels something painful lodge in his throat. He doesn’t want to submit to anyone – not even Lucifer. And certainly not in a sexual sense. He will never be on his back, allowing the intrusion into his body the way Lucifer seems to enjoy. The truth of the matter is, Alastor doesn’t understand how anyone can find pleasure in it – being in such a vulnerable position. But Lucifer does enjoy it – Alastor has no doubt about that. He recalls Lucifer lying on his back on that plush white carpet, all but taunting Alastor to take him in his most terrifying form – which isn’t something Alastor can fully wrap his mind around. Perhaps Lucifer knows he is so much more powerful than Alastor that even at his most intimidating, it comes across as amusing, somehow.

Lucifer can afford to submit. As a being several classes superior, perhaps playacting vulnerability is entertaining for him. Alastor may be contract-bound to serve as entertainment for Lucifer, but he has his limits. Limits Lucifer seemed disinclined to push…

He hadn’t even pursued the answer as to whether or not Alastor would want to be taken for a change.

Is it truly consideration? Or something else?

“Fuck!” Alastor swears and slams the piano lid shut. “Fuck you!” He shouts, his voice carrying across the room. “And fuck your coffee too!”

Why is he letting Lucifer get to him? Being free of responsibility to entertain him, free from needing to answer his three questions daily, it should be a relief, not an annoyance! So why is he so incredibly irritated instead?  Lucifer is driving him insane – with the water – and absconding with Alastor’s shirt – and pulling the addiction out of him… So why does Alastor still feel addicted?

Why does he still want to run his hands over Lucifer – claw at him – mark him?

Why does his mouth tingle at the memory of coffee and Lucifer’s lips?

Why does he desire to pull Lucifer to the ground and take everything he seems to be so willing to give?

Breathing heavily, Alastor feels burning prickles across his skin and realizes, to his horror, that he is growing aroused.

Why was this happening to him, why now, when Lucifer wasn’t even here to entice him? He pushes his hands into his hair and pulls at it. What has Lucifer done to him – bewitched him – drugged him – poisoned him? It must be one of these – must be – otherwise none of this made any sense. Alastor didn’t get aroused, not for anyone.

Mimzy used to prance around him half-naked and it made no fucking difference.

He’d seen so many beautiful people dancing, bodies gyrating, contorted, covered in sweat, and he never felt the stirring he was feeling now.

He’d seen people engaging in intercourse in the backrooms, alleyways, in the backseats of cars – and not a single time did it titillate him – at most he observed out of a morbid sense of fascination and revulsion at the vulgarity of it all, but not a single time did it make him flushed or tempted to participate, whether with someone else or alone. It was just a strange thing people did – no better than animals in a rut – mindless and thoughtless in pursuit of pleasure.

But Lucifer…

Lucifer didn’t engage in any of this vulgarity openly. He wasn’t outwardly flirty or sexual, he wasn’t open about it like Angel Dust, and anything he enjoyed he was keeping private – as it was supposed to. Oh, he was brazen, for sure, but never made Alastor feel unsafe. Did Lucifer actually care enough to not just take what he wanted with violence – or did he simply enjoy mind games, preferring to hunt in a more covert manner?

Alastor despised the sensation of being anyone’s prey.

Alastor gets up and strands straight. He heads to his liquor cabinet and grabs a tray, then stalks to his dining area, places the carafe on it, and walks out of his rooms, straight down the deserted corridor that connects their rooms. At least his excitement has abated to the point of not being outwardly noticeable.

He reaches Lucifer’s ornate doors and knocks impatiently. This is what Lucifer has reduced him to – a fucking waiter languishing in front of his rooms like a pathetic little lapdog. He knocks again, this time more insistently and the doors open – finally! Lucifer is standing on the other side in his pajamas, bleary-eyed, gaze unfocused as he looks up. “Oh, fuck… what time is it?”

“At this point? Probably half-twelve. You’ve missed breakfast.” Alastor looks down, taking in the pale pink silk pajamas with white piping around the collar. Lucifer looks like a fucking cherry blossom.

“Is that coffee?” Lucifer perks up, despite the tiredness etched onto his face. “Oh my God, you’re the best.”

The earnest (and entirely unexpected) compliment takes Alastor completely off-guard.

“Come in…come in. Sorry, had a long night, I’m fucking beat.” Lucifer yawns wide, not even bothering to cover his sinful mouth behind a black hand. Alastor strolls in; closing the door behind him, then carries the tray to Lucifer’s table. 

So, Lucifer wasn’t avoiding him, he simply overslept? Alastor feels his righteous indignation waning slightly.

Lucifer stretches out, groaning, and shuffles off to his desk to grab the mug Alastor remembers from two days ago. The desk is stacked with parchments, books and papers of all sorts, piled up almost as high as Lucifer himself. Alastor observes Lucifer as he stumbles back to his seating area and places the mug on the table.

“You were working.” Alastor states, preempting Lucifer by taking the carafe and pouring him coffee.

Lucifer yawns again, slouching, his forked tongue curling in his mouth. Alastor stares, his stomach doing a sickening back flip at the sight. Alastor catches himself before the mug can overflow.

“Yeah, I was… Barely made a dent in it…” Lucifer complains, scratching his stomach absentmindedly, his pajamas hiked up enough to show a sliver of skin. “Mmmm, that smells so good…” Lucifer murmurs and picks up the mug with an appreciative little hum.

Alastor places the carafe back on the tray, where it clatters for a moment before settling down. Lucifer doesn’t seem to notice how unbalanced Alastor is, happily sipping on the warm brew, eyes closed and eyelashes fluttering in pleasure. Alastor gnashes his teeth – how dare he?

“Damn, I’d kiss you if you wouldn’t gut me for it, ha ha!” Lucifer jokes, a pleasant, if tired smile blooming on his face.

I wouldn’t, Alastor thinks to himself. Even though I should.

Alastor’s fingers grip the table, talons threatening to rend the veneer. He’d been so riled up that he left his rooms without the gloves, like an absolute idiot. Lucifer rolls his shoulders and hums into his mug happily, drinking, his throat bobbing as he swallows. Alastor’s shoulder’s tense at the display, Lucifer as unguarded as a newborn foal skipping about on wobbly legs. The moment Lucifer’s mouth leaves the mug, Alastor’s fingers close around it and pull, dragging a surprised Lucifer along. “What are y–“ Lucifer mouths, trying to finish the question, but Alastor doesn’t let him finish, cutting him off with an abrupt kiss, careful to steady the coffee as it sloshes precipitously around the mug, threatening to spill all over their hands and the floor.

“Nnh–!” Lucifer melts into the kiss, surrendering to him almost immediately. Alastor feels the moment Lucifer’s grasp on the mug loosens so he pries if away from Lucifer’s unresponsive fingers and hastens to deposit it on the table, misjudging the distance slightly, the warm coffee spilling over his fingers before the mug stills on the tabletop with a wobble.

 Alastor breaks the kiss to look at the spill, frowning as the dark liquid dribbles down to his wrist. Lucifer exhales noisily, then looks Alastor dead in the eye. “Are you going to clean that up or shall I?”

“It’s your fault,” Alastor says firmly and Lucifer huffs out an incredulous little laugh. Before Alastor can do much more than stare at him balefully, Lucifer pulls his hand closer and licks it, from wrist to palm, his serpent tongue lapping up the spilled coffee to the accompaniment of desperate groans. The sensation of Lucifer’s sinuous, dexterous tongue lapping between his fingers sets something inside Alastor aflame.

He wants to mark his territory – stake a claim, leave some kind of mark upon Lucifer as proof of ownership – leash him – pull him in and make him squirm…

Lucifer sucks his fingers clean of coffee (but they are the furthest thing away from clean right now) and looks at Alastor, irises a molten gold. “Did you come here to fuck me?” Lucifer asks without preamble, and tingles explode at the back of Alastor’s neck – ah, so this is a question Lucifer truly wants answered.

“No.” Spills from Alastor’s mouth, completely against his volition, but the compulsion isn’t done with him quite yet, seeing how he continues with: “But I will now.” The promise in his voice is thick, and Lucifer shudders at the tone. “You said you liked domineering…” Alastor remarks, gaining on Lucifer, who has taken a few steps back unconsciously.

“I like a lot of things.” Lucifer licks his lower lip and looks up.

Would Lucifer enjoy the degradation of being on all fours as Alastor fucked him from behind?

“Do you like your clothes being ruined?” Alastor inquires, eyeing the pajamas in a desire to see them ripping under his claws.

Lucifer gives him a wolfish grin. “Depends on the clothes… if it were nice lacy lingerie, I would probably be upset…”

“And if it were what you’re wearing now?”

Lucifer’s eyes all but glow in the permanent gloom of the Ring. “I’d let you ruin these, sure.”

Alastor takes that as invitation enough and pulls at the shirt draping over Lucifer’s body and then rends it with his sharp talons from collar to non-existent navel. Lucifer shudders as Alastor pulls the tatters down his shoulders, leaving him beautifully bare for his avid gaze. Lucifer threw it in his face that Alastor wanted him, but as far as he was concerned, Lucifer desired him far more – giving into his every whim the second Alastor showed even the slightest inclination of responding to his advances.

Alastor was planning on ruining far more than just Lucifer’s pajamas – so what if his thoughts are consumed with Lucifer –  he only needs to repay the favor and ruin him for anyone else.

“Would you mind getting on the bed on all fours, my dear?” Alastor asks, sickly sweet.

Lucifer looks at him with desire; mouth falling open slightly, as if he’d planned on saying something but promptly lost his train of thought.  His golden eyes drink Alastor in and he nibbles on his lower lip for a moment before turning towards the bed and casting an almost shy glance Alastor’s way. He observes Lucifer as he returns to the bed – still unmade – and climbs in, crawling on his hands and knees, occasionally glancing his way as if to check whether Alastor was still interested.

Luckily for Lucifer, Alastor is still very much interested in the proceedings.

Alastor wishes he could know just how desperately Lucifer wants him – how badly he needs someone to fill the void inside him. Well, if Lilith failed to, with all her feminine charms and thousands of years of head-start, Alastor isn’t sure what he can offer that she couldn’t, but he’ll be damned if he wouldn’t give it a try regardless.

“Have you missed me?” Alastor asks teasingly as he stalks to the bed, savoring the picture Lucifer presents – submissive and expectant. Were you lonely without me?

“Maybe a little…” Lucifer gives him a coy smile.

“I hope you will find this entertaining, then.” Alastor says smoothly as he reaches the bed, standing directly behind Lucifer, who is still clad in pajama bottoms.

“What, no carefully picked music this time?” Lucifer needles him and Alastor’s smile drops a tiny fraction. He’s not planned anything. What would even be suitable for the occasion that wouldn’t get misconstrued at this point?

“Got any music requests for me?” Alastor asks, grasping for recent events that could serve as a smoke-screen. “Any particular piece you wouldn’t mind getting despoiled to?”

Lucifer, with his ass in the air and elbows on the bed – snorts – then promptly dissolves into a laughing fit – his shoulders are shaking as he giggles uncontrollably, making Alastor wonder what Lucifer is so infernally amused by.

“De – ha ha hah – despoiled!” Lucifer cries out shrilly, voice high-pitched and hysterical as he throws his head back, disheveled golden strands flying every which way. “You’re so fucking dramatic sometimes!”

Alastor can feel a sliver of embarrassment at being mocked, but it soon gives rise to annoyance and anger. He reaches out and drags his bared claws down Lucifer’s back, careful not to maim, but not careful enough not to leave raised red lines across his pallid skin. Lucifer moans wantonly in response, back arching as his hips swivel, leaving no doubt as to his enjoyment. Alastor drags his palms down Lucifer’s scratched-up back, enjoying the muted heat the raised lines are giving off until he gets to the pink fabric of Lucifer’s pajama bottoms and hooks his claws into it, pulling them down, along with his underwear. Lucifer gasps and gives him a desirous look over his shoulder.

“Your music request, sire?” Alastor asks in a suggestive tone.

Lucifer chuckles. “Music you want to despoil me to?”

“If it pleases you.” Alastor needles him in return.

“Hmm…” Lucifer makes a noise of speculation. “Why don’t you prepare me while I think about it?”

Alastor grips the soft, sparse flesh of Lucifer’s behind. “As you wish.”

Lucifer waves his hand and something comes flying out of his bedside drawer, straight into his waiting hand. “Use this,” Lucifer says with a shameless grin as he extends his arm backwards to offer the object to Alastor, who promptly plucks it out of Lucifer’s hand to inspect it.

“Ozzie’s… eXXXtra Glide?” Alastor reads the label, both eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. “For the…man inside you.”

 Lucifer laughs, burying his face into the creased comforter, left forearm thumping against the bed.

“Mockery isn’t exactly conducive to my already vanishingly limited libido.” Alastor warns him.

“I’m–“ Lucifer wheezes out, nearly crying with laughter. “– sorry! You just – fuck – read that with such disgust, ha ha ha!”

“How was I supposed to read such prurient drivel, then?” Alastor asks as he smacks Lucifer on the ass.

“Ah!” Lucifer exclaims in surprise, then turns, contorting his spine so he can look back at Alastor. “You don’t have to read it, Alastor. Just use it on whatever you’re intending to use while fucking me. It’s just lubricant, there’s no need to be embarrassed by it.”

“Nonsense.” Alastor says haughtily, swallowing any upset he may have displayed and stripping Lucifer of his clothing none too gently, hearing a tear in the fabric as he does so. Who was embarrassed? Lucifer groans at the manhandling and Alastor knows this is the proper way to shut Lucifer up.

“Ah–ah, nnh–“ Lucifer moans as Alastor grasps his hips none too gently.

“I see you’re still sporting the bruises I gave you.” Alastor remarks sweetly. “Would you like to add more to your collection?” To his immense satisfaction, Lucifer shivers underneath him. Anything mocking melts from Lucifer’s expression and posture as he turns pliant and eager in Alastor’s hands.

“Y-yes, please.” Lucifer stammers, flushed and erect.

Lucifer wants to be marked by him. Alastor throbs in his undergarments, suppressing a groan at the sight of Lucifer undulating before him, begging for it with every tiny movement of his pristine, serpentine body.

Two tendrils emerge from the shadows pooling on the bed, flanking Lucifer’s hips, one on each side. One of them caresses Lucifer’s thigh while Alastor pops the cap of the lubricant open and proceeds to dribble some over the other, currently idle tendril. The way the viscous clear liquid oozes down the tendril makes him shiver – whether with disgust or anticipation, it’s hard to tell. Holding his breath, Alastor uses both hands to reveal the slightly puckered ring of flesh he’s managed to fill so many times before, yet never bothered to properly look at – it’s a muted pink, not too dissimilar to the pajamas he’s ripped off of Lucifer.

“Nnh–!” Lucifer groans beneath him, hips pushing against Alastor’s hands – his fingers tighten slightly in response, claws digging into Lucifer’s flesh without breaking the skin – but the pinprick of talons is surely felt – and seemingly appreciated.

Alastor exhales, the breath coming out of his lungs shaky as the slickened tendril flickers against Lucifer’s gently constricting sphincter. Lucifer is panting underneath him, quiet noises of pained anticipation spilling from his lips in a steady stream.  

“Come up with music yet?” Alastor asks, his voice less smooth than he would like.

“N-not yet–ah!” Lucifer moans as the tendril gently burrows into him and Alastor can’t help but stare, more fascinated than repelled by the sight. What is it about Lucifer that is making all this carnal business even remotely palatable?

“Think faster, darling…” Alastor croons as the tendril pushes in and out of Lucifer’s gently constricting muscle, coaxing more lewd noises from him. Was Lucifer having a hard time thinking right now? How wonderful. Alastor didn’t want him capable of rational thought. He wanted Lucifer to be utterly consumed by every touch, every sensation. Alastor wanted every touch he bestowed to feel maddening, and judging by Lucifer’s uninhibited noises and movements, he was succeeding.

“You can give me m-more…” Lucifer murmurs, barely coherent.

“More of what?” Alastor asks just to be cruel. He wants Lucifer to say it explicitly.

Lucifer gives him a half-affronted look over his shoulder. “Either add the second tendril, or make this one bigger – I need the stretch if you’re planning on…”

“Planning on what?” Alastor smirks at him, entirely unrepentant.

“On sticking your dick in me, you ba–ah–stard!” Lucifer slurs his words as Alastor makes the tendril squirm inside of Lucifer.

“All in due time…” Alastor purrs and gives Lucifer’s pretty little behind one final squeeze before reaching for the lubricant once more. The other tendril, which had been busily caressing Lucifer’s bared belly slithers under Lucifer’s erection, brushing against his scrotum, then emerging on the other side, where Alastor squeezes lubricant down the length, then caps the container and puts it aside. He moves a bit back so he can observe as the second tendril squeezes past the first, filling Lucifer up.

“F–fuck, ah!” Lucifer whines, rocking into the intruding appendages with what looks like a mixture of eagerness and despair.

“Is this what you wanted?” Alastor asks, unable to look away.

Lucifer lets out a strident moan as he stretches out his arms, lying almost flat against the bed.

“Answer me.” Alastor demands as he unfastens his trousers.

“Yes!” Lucifer cries out. “Alastor!”

Lucifer is calling his name… For some reason, it makes Alastor groan, warmth coiling in his gut.

“Think about music.” Alastor instructs Lucifer. “You have until I divest.” He clambers off the bed and removes his coat first. His shadow emerges to assist him, taking his coat to drape it over an armchair as Alastor takes his shoes off. His gaze is never far away from Lucifer, who is writhing against the sheets. With naught but intent, Alastor makes the tendrils thicker by a small margin. Lucifer mentioned needing a stretch…

“Did you just–“ Lucifer moans, shuddering helplessly upon the bed as the enterprising tendrils fuck into him with slick, squelching sounds. “Ohhh–“

Alastor is freeing his shirt when Lucifer finally manages to gather his wits enough to form a coherent sentence: “I–I got the music – Bacchanale – Samson and Delilah? You played the Aquarium before, so…”

“Saint-Saëns. I know.” Alastor says smoothly. “That’s the only good part of that opera.”

Lucifer laughs, but it soon dissolves into a moan. Static rises in the air as Lucifer’s radio flickers awake on the fireplace mantel, spilling forth the opening solo – the strident, weeping tones of an oboe playing an exotic, chromatic melody.

“Figures you wouldn’t like ‘Mon Coeur s’ouvre a ta voix’,” Lucifer says.

“Who is Delilah here?” Alastor asks, knowing that entire aria was manipulation from start to finish, destined to ensnare Samson and rob him of his strength – and deliver him to his doom.

Lucifer falls quiet, out of words as he shudders on the bed, hips rolling in concert with the tendrils coiling inside him. Alastor strips out of his trousers with haste, his shadow ready to take them away, along with the underwear. Once he’s bared from hip down, he debates whether he wishes to divest completely and decides against it. Lucifer is looking incredibly inviting and Alastor is all out of patience.

“Is that enough of a stretch for you?” Alastor asks as he climbs the bed on his knees.

“Hnn – should be? Just – just use more on yourself and we should be f–fine–ah!”

That final exclamation may have had something to do with Alastor grasping Lucifer’s hips possessively. He cannot help but run his hands along Lucifer’s spine, so beautiful and arched for him… Alastor wants to have him – all of him. No matter what it takes.

As the tendrils begin to withdraw, Lucifer keens at the loss, hips grinding into Alastor’s, whose talons prick Lucifer’s skin in warning. “Patience, you’ll get yours soon.” It’s a promise he makes with relish as he reaches for the discarded lubricant and takes himself in hand to drench his member in the cool, viscous concoction. The feeling of it is disgusting upon his bare hand, but that is beside the point. The tendrils hold Lucifer’s ass spread, revealing the puckered ring of muscle. It shouldn’t be a pleasant sight, but with Lucifer… Alastor guides himself in, Lucifer stilling beneath him, save for the tremble of his shoulders.

Unable to hide it, Alastor whines at the sensation – the slide in is no longer painful, but so warm and yielding, despite the contracting muscle trying to trap him inside. It feels so much better than on previous occasions, the clench of Lucifer’s body less vicious. How can he be so inviting…so yielding? How does he make submission seem appealing?

Alastor groans, hips snapping into Lucifer’s, who cries out in pleasure as Alastor fills him up completely. The pleasure is molten and languid, burning across his skin as he blindly grasps at Lucifer, hands sliding across his back and down to his hips. Lucifer’s desperate moans are muffled, his head buried in the crumpled comforter, clawed black hands gripping the fabric tightly as Alastor drives into him.

It feels… right. Lucifer writhing underneath him, pure white skin marred with thin red lines, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat… Alastor has promised him bruises, hasn’t he? He grips Lucifer’s narrow hips tighter and fills him again, breath stuttering from exertion.

Alastor’s eyes flutter shut as he focuses solely on sensation – the scalding, gentle constriction around his cock, Lucifer’s slick skin, so taut underneath his firm grip, the whines spilling from Lucifer’s lips, brimming with desire…

It’s…it’s good. It shouldn’t be, but oh, it is so damn good.

Lucifer is his. Not Lilith’s. No one else’s.

“Lucifer…” Alastor grunts, biting his lip so he doesn’t scream his possession, even as his mind keeps chanting: ‘Mine. Mine. Mine!’ as he takes him until he overflows, spilling inside Lucifer with a shuddering groan.

Alastor pants, breaths harsh and labored as he blinks phosphenes out of his eyes, his shirt sticking to his back unpleasantly.

“Alastor…” Lucifer whines underneath him, sounding almost teary. “Please – I’m so close!”

“Tell me what you want.” Alastor mutters, voice shaky and uneven, his usual affectation barely present.

“Touch me–“ Lucifer pleads, “–bring me off–Al–ah!”

Not bothering to pull out, Alastor blankets Lucifer’s body, encasing him completely, and reaches under him with his right hand to grasp his weeping erection.

“I’ve got you…” Alastor mutters harshly against Lucifer’s neck, the blood singing underneath his skin. His grasp hastens, Lucifer hot and hard in his hand, and Alastor licks Lucifer’s neck, tasting his sweat and his pulse. Lucifer turns towards him, eyes at half-mast as he pants, bottom lip bitten and bleeding.

“Kiss me?“ Lucifer begs him and Alastor feels the damned compulsion kicking in, despite the damned words being more of a statement than anything. Did Lucifer meant to say: “Will you kiss me?” Is that why Alastor feels compelled to answer?

“I would,” Alastor says between grit teeth. “But you’re bleeding.”

Lucifer licks at his lip and the tiny cut disappears, the blood vanishing alongside it. His eyes, no longer molten gold, look so pleading… Alastor captures his mouth in a bruising kiss and feels Lucifer shudder underneath him in climax, spilling all over Alastor’s fingers and the bed.

Lucifer has reached completion, but he lingers, continuing the kiss, lips soft and pliant against Alastor’s.

When it finally breaks, their eyes meet for a long moment, something unspoken lingering in the air like a mirage upon scorching desert sand.

Alastor swallows and looks away first. “We should get cleaned up.”

“You can use my shower if you want? I can conjure scentless soap for you.” Lucifer offers, attempting to get up, which Alastor takes as his cue to remove his person and all of his appendages. He cringes as he pulls out, feeling filthy.

“Magic would be more expedient.” He remarks.

“Aw, but a lot less fun.” Lucifer drawls, looking considerably more refreshed.

“Are you inviting me into the shower in my clothes again?” Alastor inquires, realizing that Lucifer’s previous question didn’t trigger the compulsion. Does that mean that Lucifer never expected Alastor to actually accept?

Lucifer waves his hand to vanish the mess he’s made of the sheets and turns over to look at Alastor appreciatively. “That particular invitation is always open.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Alastor huffs and looks at his seed-stained hand. To be honest, he should just wash his hands, but then he remembers he isn’t allowed Lucifer’s blood anymore lest he destroy himself and feels it would be a waste to simply wash it away… So he laps at his hand, licking Lucifer’s milky spend from his fingers.

“Ok, that just looks unreasonably hot.” Lucifer remarks, almost petulantly. Alastor meets his gaze and smirks at him. Lucifer returns the smile, and it turns sly. “One day, you will eat me out.”

“Eat what out?” Alastor asks, done with his hand.

“My ass.” Lucifer grins, lounging on the bed, well fucked and confident.

Alastor’s face scrunches up. “That sounds both unpalatable and unhygienic.”

Lucifer flops backwards on the bed and starts laughing. Alastor gets an almost unbearable urge to tickle him until he’s shrieking loud enough to be heard several floors below, even through angelic wards. Once he’s laughed himself silly, Lucifer glances up at him. “I can make sure I am squeaky clean for you. Perks of having angelic powers – zero fuss about that sort of thing.”

“I think I’ll pass.” Alastor mutters, entirely unconvinced.

“Or you could always let me eat you out.” Lucifer offers. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“I fail to see what’s appealing about it.” Alastor admits, feeling quite dubious at the prospect.

“It’s hot?” Lucifer shrugs. “And pretty intimate, too. It can be nice.”

“I reserve the right to refuse and I’m exercising it, if you don’t mind.”

Lucifer sits up, looking at him softly. “Of course.”

Alastor fades into shadows to cleanse himself and reforms next to the armchair where the shadow left his clothing. As he dresses himself, Lucifer gets off the bed, still naked, and pads to the table to fetch the abandoned cup of coffee. Alastor turns the radio off.

“You didn’t ditch me this time.” Lucifer notes with amusement as he sips his coffee. “Ugh, it’s gone cold.”

Alastor chuckles as he buttons up his boxers. Revenge is coffee served cold, apparently.

Lucifer reaches for the carafe to pour the rest of the still warm coffee into his cup, which he proceeds to sample immediately, sighing in pleasure. He puts the carafe down and smiles at Alastor, who is in the process of pulling his trousers back on.

“Well, good morning to me.” Lucifer smiles lazily as he raises his mug at Alastor, as if in toast.

Alastor snorts. “I’m pleased to serve.”

Lucifer quirks an eyebrow, but makes no further comment as he drinks his coffee in greedy swallows. Alastor tries not to stare at Lucifer’s throat and fails miserably. Once the coffee has been drained, Lucifer places his mug back on the table and stretches, every line of his body taut.

Beautiful, Alastor’s mind supplies.

“I believe I’ll take a quick shower,” Lucifer says with a yawn. “Feel free to stick around. We need to talk anyway.”

“What about?” Alastor asks as he tucks his shirt into his trousers and fastens them.

“You’ll see after I’ve had my shower.” Lucifer murmurs teasingly, throwing a wink at Alastor over his shoulder as he sashays to the bathroom. To Alastor’s immense satisfaction, there are fresh bruises decorating Lucifer’s hips. If he could, he would brand Lucifer with his palm-prints, leaving an everlasting mark. 

The bathroom door closes with a soft click.

Alastor gets dressed in silence and expels a sigh he wasn’t even aware he was holding on to.

What is he even supposed to do while Lucifer is in the bathroom? He brushes the creases out of his coat and looks to the desk, piled with documents. What was Lucifer even working on that required this amount of mess?

Alastor stalks towards the desk to have a closer look. As he rifles through the papers, he realizes he cannot read them – as they are all written in languages he doesn’t understand. There are documents in what he presumes to be Latin, several in what must be ancient Greek, and even a few written in scripts that are entirely unfamiliar to him. As it stands, he cannot even venture a guess as to their contents. What an ingenious way to make certain he couldn’t snoop while Lucifer is away!

Alastor grins lazily as he peruses the rest, careful to put things precisely where he’d found them. There are also scrolls with what appear to be sigils. Is this angelic script? Alastor doesn’t know, since his familiarity with the occult ended and began with voodoo. Perhaps he should branch out… Especially considering the source of his magical power… It was always a bad idea to have all your eggs in one basket, which is why his deals were made with a vast array of souls with little to no connection between them.

Then his eyes land on a symbol he is eerily familiar with. His lips curl into an unpleasant snarl. What the fuck is HER sigil doing here? Alastor claws against his breastbone, knowing he cannot dislodge the damned thing no matter how hard he tries. It’s the sludge in the marrow of his bones, the virulent green crackle of his magic, the shadow underneath the static. She may own his soul, but his mind was still his own, the free will gifted to him by his true Lord keeping him from being a mere puppet to her whims.

But the most pertinent question remained – why was this sigil on Lucifer’s desk?

An uneasy feeling settles in his gut.

Chapter Text

When Lucifer finally emerges from the bathroom, fully dressed but without his tailcoat and hat, Alastor looks up from his seat in the reading nook where he’d been observing the city below. The radio is quietly humming along , a soft jazzy tune spilling from the speakers. Lucifer heads towards him and sits down opposite him, making himself comfortable against the window.

“Feeling refreshed?” Alastor asks, fingers intertwined and resting atop his crossed knee.

Lucifer gives him a mild, perfectly contented sigh. “Yes, thank you.”

“You said you wanted to talk?” Alastor reminds him.

Lucifer’s expression turns from mellow to serious. “I did indeed.”

“Well, go on.” Alastor prompts him, still vaguely uneasy from the revelation of his owner’s sigil etched upon a scroll on Lucifer’s paper-infested desk. Did Lucifer know who owned Alastor’s soul?

“First of all,” Lucifer gives him a glare of reproach. “What the fuck were you thinking, two days ago?”

Alastor gives him a quizzical look. “I don’t follow.”

“Your little broadcast in the evening?” Lucifer prompts him.

“I’ll remind you, that was entirely your daughter’s doing.” Alastor says breezily, deflecting blame.

“I don’t mean the concept of it,” Lucifer rolls his eyes obnoxiously. “I meant you referencing Charlie as our redeemer. You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

Alastor blinks. What was wrong with that? Charlie was, indeed, trying to redeem the residents.

“Oh, don’t give me that innocent look!” Lucifer reprimands him. “The second you were in possession of incendiary information, you just had to get a dig in. God forbid you don’t flaunt your knowledge somehow!”

Alastor halts. Did he? He remembers saying it, but recalls making the remark off-handedly, without putting much thought into it at all. “I…” He halts, unable to string the thought together. “It must have still been on my mind…”

Lucifer gives him a long, hard look, eyes assessing and shrewd. “So…it wasn’t deliberate?” He asks, expression easing marginally.

Alastor wishes it were, to be perfectly frank, as that would have made for a spectacular jab. Alas…

“I cannot take credit for it. It was merely a slip of the tongue, I’m afraid.”

Lucifer squirms in his seat. “Well, moving forward, your tongue better not slip, or we’ll be in deep shit.”

The way Lucifer looks away, as if mildly embarrassed, makes Alastor smirk. “I’ll be more careful about how I employ my tongue in the future.”

“Oh, stop being so smug.” Lucifer gives him a half-hearted glare.

Alastor offers naught but an innocent shrug. He’s pretty sure that counted as flirting, at least by Lucifer’s standards, so he had no right to complain.

“Anyhow,” Lucifer continues, “that wasn’t the main thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Yes, yes.” Alastor waves one of his hands around, willing Lucifer to get on with it.

“I have concerning news.” Lucifer says.

“Should I be worried?” Alastor raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t know yet; tell me once I’m done.”

“Alright.”

“So, we know that with Adam’s death, there’s now an issue brewing in Heaven. He was absolute scum, but his followers are fanatical and devoted. Lute is baying for blood.”

“His second in command?”

“Precisely,” Lucifer says. “And she’s even more zealous and cruel than Adam. He was content to hunt people for sport, while she…she takes her title as exorcist quite literally.”

Alastor attempts to parse the implications of that. “So, you fear what exactly? War?” Because, in Alastor’s reckoning, that might not be too bad, provided they were prepared with plenty of angelic steel weaponry at the ready – especially bullets. Let the angelic hosts wield spears like the overconfident fools they were, and get mowed down. If anything, he’d learned from his fight with Adam that one should not ignore the benefit of ranged weaponry…

“Of course I fear war, what fool doesn’t?” Lucifer frowns.

“Those who stand to profit from it, obviously.” Alastor states blithely.

“War would be the worst possible thing to happen,” Lucifer says, serious. “Just imagine… all of the souls we lost in the exterminations will now never have the opportunity to get redeemed. War would only make this exponentially worse. I’ve already…failed them enough.”

Alastor secretly agrees, but holds his tongue.

“I wanted to avoid all out conflict, which is why I allowed the exterminations in the first place.” Lucifer sighs and slumps over, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. “It’s my fault we lost them all.”

“Bullshit.” Alastor states bluntly.

“Excuse me?” Lucifer looks up at him, affronted to be contradicted.

“You heard me,” Alastor says calmly, staring Lucifer down. “That’s a load of nonsense.”

“Nonsense?” Lucifer says angrily, sitting back up, spine ramrod straight, posture bleeding poorly restrained aggression.

“Yes.” Alastor doubles down. “Utter horse shit.”

Lucifer blinks, clearly torn between trying to find Alastor’s reasoning and lashing out at him.

“You tasked me with holding you accountable and that’s precisely what I’m doing – pointing out the flaw in your reasoning.”

Lucifer attempts to calm his breathing and unclench his teeth. “I’m listening.”

Alastor smiles. “Let’s start with your pathological need for self-flagellation.”

“My…what?” Lucifer blinks at him, uncomprehending.

“Not everything under the sun can somehow be tied in as being your fault.”

“But…I allowed the exterminations.”

Alastor rolls his eyes in aggravation. “You only allowed it because you didn’t know there was anything at stake.”

Lucifer frowns, but is clearly listening and paying full attention to what Alastor is trying to say. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“For one, you had no way of knowing that redemption was possible.” Alastor points out the blindingly obvious. “In addition, how many of those wretches actually desired redemption in the first place? Or deserved it, for that matter? They’re in Hell for a damn good reason, most of them. Just because one out of a billion ascended, doesn’t mean much.”

“Yes – but the mere possibility of it has been stripped away from them!” Lucifer exclaims, clearly distraught.

“So? Since when are you omniscient?”

“What does that–“ Lucifer stammers, visibly confused. “– I’m not?”

“There you go. You’re not all-knowing.” Alastor points out. “So why do you expect yourself to be? Retroactively, at that.”

“I don’t…” Lucifer opens his mouth to retort but then his teeth clack shut as he frowns and sinks into a more contemplative mood.

Alastor decides to hammer the point home. “You had no reason to believe there was anything to be gained by continually investing your efforts into the ungrateful hordes of sinners. If anything, you probably believed you were offering them mercy – rest from eternal torment.”

Lucifer’s face scrunches up in pain. “I…that’s what I told Lilith,” Lucifer says quietly. “She slapped me for it.” Alastor winces internally, as he could perfectly envision that happening. Lucifer goes on: “She told me she lost the last vestige of respect she ever had for me and threw her ring at me. I…” Lucifer’s expression crumples entirely. “I ducked!” Then he laughs – a wet, miserable sound. “It pinged against the piano lid and dropped in-between the bass strings onto the sound board below… I had to fish it out later…” Lucifer trembles and brings his legs up to curl into a ball in his seat, face buried in his knees and arms wrapped around his legs securely, claws digging into his calves.

Alastor feels a flare of anger. This bitch again – how dare she!

So it did happen in the music room. No wonder Lucifer wanted to overwrite the memory with something else. Was he attempting to get back at his errant wife by fucking someone else in the room he got dumped in? It seemed irrational, but who was Alastor to judge?

“She said she didn’t want to be around to see me run everything she’d worked so hard for into the ground…” Lucifer mutters from his seat, the words muffled by his position. “ She told me to sort out my own mess,” Lucifer says and his breath hitches, along with his shoulders and Alastor cannot do anything except watch as the ruler of Hell dissolves into impotent, gut-wrenching tears in front of him. Sure, his face may be obscured, but the noise and the trembling is unmistakable.

“Which you didn’t do.” Alastor says in the least accusatory tone he can muster.

“I don’t need a reminder!” Lucifer cries out between poorly suppressed sobs.

“Apparently you do.” Alastor isn’t saying this to be hurtful; he’s merely trying to point out why Lucifer is having his silly little moral quandaries in the first place. “Or we wouldn’t be here.”

Lucifer’s knees drop from his seat as his eyes flare crimson and gold, his tail sprouting out to flail menacingly, the spade slicing the air as loudly as a whip-crack. “And what the fuck would you know about being abandoned by someone who promised to love you forever?” Lucifer spits out, anguished yet menacing.

“Some of us don’t get the benefit or the luxury in the first place.” Alastor growls low in his throat, slowly getting fed up with Lucifer’s obtuseness.

“Right.” Lucifer narrows his eyes and bares his teeth in a grimace. “I forgot for a moment you were incapable of understanding what love is.”

Alastor snarls in retaliation – how dare he use that against him, the whiny, impotent little– “Abiding by your partner’s depressive tantrums for millennia isn’t LOVE!”

Lucifer looks at him in disgust, leaned forward as if he’s about to launch himself at Alastor and eviscerate him for his insolence. “What is it, then?”

“It’s wishful thinking!” Alastor shouts at him. “She wanted what you used to be – but there’s no going back to it! You’ll never be that stupid, naïve, clueless angel you once were!”

Lucifer looks at him as if he was the one who got gutted instead. Why, Alastor wonders. Why does Lucifer make that face when the only thing Alastor is trying to do is perform his fucking duty, as requested?

“When you broke humanity’s shackles – you broke your own as well – why don’t you understand that?” The words spill out of him like a flood, debris inundating the space between them. “You endlessly lament the loss of purpose, without realizing that you can CHOOSE now! You can choose your own damn purpose, just like each of us mortals, eking out a life for ourselves in the fucking dirt!”

Lucifer’s baleful eyes go wide and guileless, for all their demonic splendor.

“You can’t help what you didn’t know – just – learn from your mistakes instead of forever shutting yourself away in fear of making any in the first place!”

Lucifer falls quiet, his sclera fading from crimson back to soft gold once more. His tail lies limply at his feet as he slumps against the glass.

“If you hate what Hell has become… do something about it.” Alastor implores him to action. Anything was better than this bland, weepy apathy.

“If redemption is possible, then…” Lucifer trails off, clearly wrangling some of his inner demons.

“Maybe Hell wasn’t meant to be a punishment.” Alastor mutters, the pieces of the puzzle floating around in his mind, the image unknown and as of yet unformed, but slowly coalescing. “Maybe it was meant to be a holding cell. A trial.”

“L’enfer…c’est les autres.” Lucifer mutters, eyes shining in a peculiar way.

“Hell is other people.” Alastor echoes grimly. Sartre was correct. “Humanity cast you as the villain in their tale – twisted the truth so badly over the years that they were certain you were the enemy. Hell became–“

“A reflection of their beliefs.” Lucifer states, looking shell-shocked. “A self-fulfilling prophecy.”

Alastor allows that statement to sink in.

“What if Hell was only ever meant to be… Purgatory?” Lucifer looks up at Alastor at last, eyes wet with unshed tears.

“It’s possible.” Alastor concedes, rattled as well.

“Well, that’s a nice and rosy theory–“ Lucifer gnashes his teeth. “–sure would have fucking been nice to have known about it, though!”

“Maybe it’s both.” Alastor ventures. “A punishment and an opportunity. For the deserving.”

Lucifer scoffs. “Imprisonment and torture doesn’t make ANYONE a better person. Even humanity has come far enough along to be aware of THAT.”

“Sometimes it’s the only thing that works.” Alastor shrugs.

“How can you say that?” Lucifer looks at him, dismayed.

Alastor exhales heavily, still staring Lucifer down. “Because it worked for me.”

Lucifer sobs, expression one of utter devastation.

“There’s nothing quite like superior force to make you stop and think, I’ve found.”

“Not everyone needs the same approach, Alastor!” Lucifer says, tears spilling out of the corner of his eyes. Alastor wonders what kind of agony is contained in Lucifer’s tears this time – what kind of memory of loss and anguish lurks within.

“Good.” Alastor remarks. “Leave the gentle approach to your daughter and purge the rest yourself.”

“No purging of any kind until we’re certain how redemption works.” Lucifer commands.

“You could always delegate the task to me…” Alastor purrs, leaning forward in his seat, grinning wide.

Lucifer gives him an unimpressed look as he wipes his face with his sleeve. “Set you loose to commit more carnage than you usually do? Yeah, no thanks.”

“Why not?” Alastor reasons with him. “If you don’t want to get your hands dirty, I wouldn’t mind doing it for you.”

Lucifer shakes his head at him. “And add to your already hefty pre-existing tally of sin? Let’s not.”

“Not everyone is redeemable.” Alastor opines.

“I won’t have anyone sullying their hands in my name.” Lucifer’s expression is resolute.

“People do it in God’s name all the time.”

“Yes, and it lands them in Hell.” Lucifer points out.

Alastor shrugs.

“The book you gave me…” Lucifer says hesitantly. “Is that truly how you see me? As this… demonic, manipulative psychopath who toys with people before discarding them?”

Alastor is visibly taken aback by the question, and the feeling is only made worse as the tingles explode at the back of his skull – the last question of the day compelling him to answer fully and truthfully. “I…Gil-Martin is what you could be, if you wanted to. Someone in control – powerful, unapologetic.”

“You would want me to be this way? Ruthless? Forcing people into sin?”

Alastor laughs. “You need not force them; they do it happily of their own volition.”

“That isn’t the kind of person I want to be.” Lucifer states firmly. “Sorry for saying this, but… ruling through cruelty and fear, all in a bid to keep control… that seems like something you would want, not me.”

“Sometimes the only thing people respect is a show of force.”

“People like you?” Lucifer says mildly. Alastor gapes at that, eyes wide. Lucifer smiles at him softly. “You seem unaware that this isn’t the only thing people respect.”

Alastor averts his gaze, staring at the floor. His mind fills with static, deafening him.

‘You have no respect, boy!’

Alastor’s memory supplies a childish whimper.

‘Don’t talk back to me!’

His vision blurs, the edges darkening as he’s transported once more to their small backyard, his shirt tangled around his ears, hanging over his eyes as he tried to breathe through the tears of humiliation and the burning agony spreading from the lash-marks being inflicted upon his lower back.

“Alastor?”

His name is muted, the word spoken softly, with worry.

“Maman?” He asks, the word slurred.

But that’s not right…she never came that day. He was left alone once father had tired himself out and spent the rest of the day shut in the house, mind completely disconnected until maman found him the next morning, staring at the wall like a corpse.

“Cheri?” She’d said, holding his hands, petting his hair, trying to summon him back, he remembers that much – he remembers everything except the feel of her touch. He didn’t feel that at all, almost like all the nerves in his body had been switched off.

“Alastor – hey…”

There’s movement and something white slides onto the floor before him.

“Are you alright?” Lucifer murmurs, looking up at him.

“Lucif–er?” Alastor mutters in confusion.

“Yeah.” Lucifer’s eyes are so soft and caring – just like maman’s. “I’m here.”

Alastor blinks, the nightmarish, intrusive memory slowly dissipating as he takes in the sight before him – Lucifer kneeling on the floor beneath him, looking up at him in concern, hands hesitant in the air, hovering with the desire to touch but remaining a safe distance away.

Alastor feels the pull to grab Lucifer’s hands and place them on his face – in his hair, but he breathes in instead, letting the ill-fated impulse subside.

If strength wasn’t the only thing people respected…what was?

“Is there anything you’d like me to do?” Lucifer asks, voice soft and full of compassion.

Alastor blinks. He doesn’t know. Is there anything Lucifer could do? Because he cannot find the words to say, or the thoughts required to form them. “I’m fine,” he says flatly.

“Are you sure?”

Alastor sits up straighter, smile absolutely blinding as his spine realigns to a series of ominous pops and cracks. “Of course, my dear!” Alastor laughs. “Right as rain!”

Lucifer allows his hands to drop, stilling them atop his white-clad trousers. Alastor knows that somewhere beyond that fabric lay mottled bruises, but something in Lucifer’s eyes leaves him feeling bruised himself. Alastor wishes Lucifer would no longer pry.

“Alright.” Lucifer nods, getting back to his feet, which puts him temporarily at a height advantage.

Lucifer lets the matter drop and goes back to his seat, brushing dust off his immaculate white trousers. Alastor doesn’t say it, but he certainly feels it – the consideration Lucifer demonstrated to spare him the ignominy of acknowledging his inopportune display of weakness. Lucifer looks out the window and allows the silence to lapse.

Alastor realizes the radio has been spewing nothing but static for a long while – yet another thing Lucifer didn’t remark upon, pretending for Alastor’s benefit that he hadn’t noticed. Just like Rosie – he busied himself with something inane to give Alastor the space needed to recuperate.

Were they friends now? Was this mutual exchange of consideration enough for such a thing?

“The talent show–” Alastor introduces a safer topic. “What are you planning on doing? For your act?”

Lucifer turns to him, surprised by the question. “I haven’t really decided yet. Maybe put on a magic show?” His face softens at that. “I used to do it for Charlie when she was little…”

“You should play.” Alastor interjects. “Your violin.”

Lucifer startles out of his fond (and likely painful) reminiscence. “You really think so?”

“Yes,” Alastor says, absolute in his conviction. “Music has as great a power as any magic I have ever encountered.”

Lucifer’s smile is wobbly and hesitant. “That’s…pretty ironic, considering our earlier conversation…”

“Music has the power to change one’s mind.” Alastor states. Music had the power to move without wiping someone’s mind, the way Vox could.

“Hah!” Lucifer exclaims. “Lilith’s power was song… she kept this place from rioting more than once.”

Alastor knows.

“And now I’m left behind, having to manage it on my own without a failsafe.”

“You are the fucking failsafe, idiot.” Alastor fires back, beyond tired.

Lucifer huffs out a laugh. Then he chuckles. Alastor only stares as Lucifer starts laughing like a complete maniac; slapping his thighs as his bright laughter tinkles against the windowpanes.

Ah, so the jester has performed his duty to the King’s satisfaction.

When Lucifer finally settles down, he offers Alastor a teasing grin. “Ok, I needed that.”

“What exactly?” Alastor asks.

“A reality check.” Lucifer says mildly.

“You’re welcome.” Alastor deadpans, offering a mocking little half-bow from his seated position.

“We got awfully sidetracked.” Lucifer notes. “I still haven’t gotten to what I was trying to talk to you about.”

“As ever, I’m your captive audience.” Alastor drawls, rolling his shoulders.

“Alright, alright.” Lucifer waves his arm around. “I’ll get straight to the point.”

Alastor merely quirks an eyebrow, his stare of the deeply unimpressed variety.

“Now we know redemption is possible, which begs the question – what are the requirements? If Sir Pentious could be redeemed within what, a few months, with nothing but some camaraderie and a heroic death, which implies his sin tally was never that high to begin with.”

“Right.” Alastor remarks offhandedly. This was true, as the Victorian fellow wasn’t especially vicious or underhanded in his methods, and seemed more preoccupied with getting acknowledgment for his skill as an inventor than anything else.

“If we go by his example, this would mean that one’s sins, or in his case, good deeds, were still being tallied AFTER he died.”

“So?” Alastor asks.

“This means that the souls can be re-sorted according to merit regardless of having already been judged once. Provided they are dispatched using angelic power or angelic weaponry – we can’t be sure yet.”

“We still don’t know what the criteria for redemption is.”

Lucifer chuckles darkly. “Here’s the kicker – neither does Heaven. They have no idea what gets anyone past the pearly gates, aside from ‘being a good person’, which is vague as all heck. If you’re in Peter’s book, you’re in. That’s it. That’s their fucking criteria.”

“The whole system sounds completely bogus, if you ask me.” Alastor says.

“It is!” Lucifer exclaims emphatically. “It’s so arbitrary but no one has questioned it in millennia! Isn’t that absolutely insane?”

“This is why humanity is needed – the rest of those bird brains up there don’t have the wits to ask why the system is set up the way it is.”

“Right? I questioned things and got the fucking boot!” Lucifer gets riled up. “It makes no sense! Also, also, so many died in the exterminations yet no redemption happened before? Doesn’t that strike you as odd? It’s not like Pentious was the only half-decent fellow in the entirety of Hell!”

“True…” Alastor hums speculatively. Was it just the pure blast of angelic power that triggered it? They could test that hypothesis easily if Lucifer volunteered to blast some poor sod… not that he would, the bleeding heart.

“Which brings me to the crux of the issue,” Lucifer says gravely. “If one of ours can go UP, what if some of theirs can come DOWN?”

“Angels used to fall all the time, didn’t they?” Alastor questions, knowing Hell used to be a one-way trip kind of destination.

“Yes, a long time ago, but angels are a different matter. We don’t get judged in the same manner. Otherwise all the dead exorcists would be rotting in Hell alongside the sinners they used to hunt, as slaughtering souls is surely not great for the old sin tally… No, I’m talking about winners.”

“But the only winner that got killed was…” Alastor trails off, not liking the implication one bit.

“Adam.” Lucifer finishes his thought for him. “His actions… his deeds, I’m not sure how he ended up in Heaven in the first place, but after years of relishing in slaughter… Besides, we know for a fact he hasn’t reconstituted in Heaven.”

Michael did explicitly say that Adam was dead…

“So you think–!” Alastor gets agitated.

“That he spawned in Hell?” Lucifer says with a malicious grin. “Oh yes, I do.”

“A winner becoming a sinner…how embarrassing for them…” Alastor’s smile turns sly and nasty.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking…” Lucifer purrs, his fangs glistening in the gloom.

“If that is the case, shouldn’t we have heard about his descent already? He doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who is good at keeping a low profile…” Alastor ponders, disgust rising in his gut at the memory of Adam and his wretched electric guitar slash weapon. He scratches at his chest, at the memory of the wound inflicted there.

 “That’s what bugged me too,” Lucifer admits. “Adam is a boastful piece of shit, so if he’s staying low, it probably means he either lost all of his vaunted divine powers and is scurrying around like a cockroach, begging not to be noticed; someone already killed him and he’s currently reconstituting, or he made a pact with someone who could protect him.”

Alastor laughs at the image of Adam in some embarrassing demon form, hiding away his shame.

“I really hope he hasn’t materialized somewhere in the lower Rings, as that would be a pain in the ass…” Lucifer murmurs, more to himself.

“Wait…but all sinners manifest in this Ring, don’t they?” Alastor frowns.

“Ordinarily, yes… but the rules seem to be different for the prototypes…”

“Prototypes.” Alastor blinks.

“Yes – Adam, Lilith and Eve. They are all much stronger than the rest of humanity, just by the virtue of being first. I guess the Creator decided to nerf them in the first patch, haha.”

Alastor’s blood freezes in his veins. “Nerf… what.” He barely stammers out.

Lucifer barks out a laugh. “I forget you don’t do modern technology. I meant to say that humanity was weakened after the original humans were deemed too powerful.”

“Too powerful for what exactly?” Alastor inquires. “Was humanity… considered a threat to the Heavens?”

“Well, after Lilith and I fell… Hah. Two out of three was deemed too dangerous, I presume.”

Two out of three original humans… fell.

Well… now it was finally three out of three, wasn’t it?

“What Ring do you think he’s in?” Alastor asks, teeth aching with blood thirst.

Lucifer grins from ear to ear, gleeful and malevolent in equal measure. “Oh, my money’s still on Pride. Mister big ego, bigger dick, first-man-ever…”

Alastor’s eye twitches with distaste. Well, if the freshly fallen Adam was in Pride that was more convenient for the both of them… He can already feel his blood boiling with desire to sink his claws into the disgusting wretch to slake his thirst for vengeance.

“Need any help tracking him down?” Alastor offers in a honey-sweet tone.

“Why, I thought you’d never ask…” Lucifer says, falsely demure.

“What do you intend to do with him when we find him?” Alastor questions, hoping he would be allowed his pound of flesh off the newly-minted demon. “And please don’t tell me it’s something as boring as offering him redemption?”

Lucifer laughs in a truly hideous way. “Oh, that would be fun in its own right, wouldn’t it? Seeing him attempt to wrap his mind around the fact that he’s a piece of garbage who’s now finally where he belongs… no. I’m not sure I would like such a cushy fate for him. Besides, why would I saddle Charlie with his misogynist ass?” Lucifer shudders.

“I concur.” Alastor drawls, eagerly imagining Adam’s humiliation and suffering.

“Besides, redemption probably needs to be sought – and earned. Adam is monumentally narcissistic; the odds of him learning jack shit are astronomically small. His massive ego will get in the way, I’m pretty certain of that.” Lucifer says with a sneer.

“You haven’t answered my question…” Alastor reminds him.

“Oh, you mean what I plan on doing with him when I find him?” Lucifer wonders aloud. “That somewhat depends on his attitude, to be perfectly honest. But what I need him for is leverage.”

“Against Heaven?”

“Yes.” Lucifer smiles, a conniving little smile that promises nothing good for Adam or Heaven at large, for that matter. “His fanatical lieutenant might back off if she finds out he’s alive, at the very least.”

Alastor has his doubts. He suspects she might Fall of her own volition just to keep the bastard company. “Would you like me to pull some strings to see if anyone in my network has seen him?” He offers.

“I might, but I was thinking of cashing in one of my favors first.” Lucifer gets back to his feet and paces around. Oh, so he’s the kind that thinks on his feet, is he?

“Who from?” Alastor asks.

“Oh, you probably know him – he has the biggest information network in the Ring.”

Alastor tilts his head. Rosie’s connections were extensive, but Lucifer had said it was a ‘he’…

Lucifer looks at him over his shoulder. “It’s Zestial.”

That ancient, moth-bitten bookworm?

“May I come with?”

“Do you want to?” Lucifer asks.

“Naturally.” Alastor gets to his feet smoothly. “This concerns the fate of the Hotel, and I find myself deeply invested.”

Lucifer’s laughter is decidedly demonic.

“Welcome on board, Alastor.”

Chapter Text

Lucifer snaps his fingers and he’s fully clad in his regal outfit once more. Alastor sighs at the hat making a reappearance.

“What?” Lucifer looks to him quizzically.

“You need a crown.”

Lucifer makes an amused noise. “It’s literally part of the hat.”

“The hat nullifies the effect.”

Lucifer laughs. “You’re aware that not even royalty on Earth wear their crowns 24/7? Rubbing your status into people’s faces only gets your head chopped off.”

“Well, this gets you repeatedly disrespected.”

“It’s not the crown, Alastor.” Lucifer says softly. “It’s the person wearing it.”

Alastor halts in his tracks. That…was a good point. If the rest of Hell could see what Alastor saw, they would kneel for Lucifer instead of pretending he didn’t exist.

Lucifer says in a smooth, dark voice: “La plus belle des ruses du Diable est de vous persuader qu’il n’existe pas…”

“My French is a bit rusty.” Alastor admits.

Lucifer’s gaze is soft and melancholy as the words tumble out. “The cleverest ruse of the Devil is to persuade you he does not exist.” When Alastor doesn’t immediately react, Lucifer adds: “Charles Baudelaire?”

“I guess I should add that to my reading list,” Alastor says blithely, buying himself time to process what Lucifer had just said. “Do you actually believe you will stop existing if enough people forget about you?”

“I should be that lucky.” Lucifer snorts, something in his eyes dimming. “But as Adam so eloquently told me when I fought him – I’m the most hated being in all of creation.”

“Undeservedly.” Alastor points out. “People will believe whatever is most convenient to them.”

“History is written by the victors.” Lucifer reminds him with a pained smile. “I was on the losing side, that’s all.”

“At least in your own domain, people should know the truth.”

“The truth never changed any zealot’s mind.” Lucifer says mildly.

It changed mine, Alastor thinks.

Does he have to kneel for Lucifer again, to get it into his thick skull that he was HIS King?

Before he gets the chance to do anything, a swirling gold portal appears in the middle of the room.

“Where are we going?” Alastor inquires.

“To see Zestial, obviously.”

“Right away?” Alastor’s brows hike up.

“Yes. We’ve already unknowingly wasted a lot of time.” Lucifer says more resolutely as he conjures up his apple staff. Scepter? Perhaps it was supposed to be a scepter…

“I wasn’t aware he had such an extensive information network.” Alastor murmurs as he brings forth his own symbol of power.

“He hasn’t remained in power for this long by being idle.” Lucifer remarks and walks forward, in the direction of the portal. Alastor follows suit and as he looks through the swirling circle of gold, he can see the interior of a room, expansive bookshelves everywhere in sight.

“Are you opening a portal directly to his house?” Alastor asks, surprised.

“Directly to his study, yes.”

“Won’t he take offense?”

“Not if it’s me. And for the love of all that’s holy AND unholy, keep your mouth shut in his presence. Let me do the talking.”

“As you wish.” Alastor accedes easily enough and pastes on his best unconcerned smile as he strides through the portal, a few strides behind Lucifer. The moment he clears the portal, it dissipates behind him in a swirl of golden sparks. Before him is a large, well-appointed room with an enormous black fireplace, the fire burning inside it an eldritch, venomous green. On all sides, there are endless rows upon rows of books, spines old and gilded, leather worn but clearly well taken care of. There are even sliding ladders along the walls for ease of access. The room contains a small seating area, a few large tapestries, and even a suit of armor on display in one corner.

Zestial is sitting at his large and stately desk, poring over documents; a pair of spectacles perched on his nose, a magnifying glass in hand. As soon as he spots them, his many eyes widen and he abandons his magnifying glass and spectacles on his desk and rises to his spindly feet, whereupon he bows deeply.

“Greetings, My Lord.” Then he looks to Alastor, who is staying two steps behind Lucifer, leaning on his staff, but doesn’t extend him any greeting or acknowledgement beyond a passing glance. Alastor’s smile turns more rigid. “To what do I owe the pleasure of thine visit?” Zestial says pleasantly, in his usual deep tone, a skittering of a million arachnid legs the undercurrent to his movements.

“Greetings, Zestial.” Lucifer states, standing proud and straight. “I’m afraid it’s business and not leisure that brings me here. Apologies for the inauspicious hour and the rude manner of my entry, however, it is a matter of utmost secrecy.”

“I am but thine humble servant, my Lord. How may I aid thee?”

“I come bearing the gift of news. Some good, some bad. I hope an equal exchange of information will be possible.” Lucifer states, not beating around the bush.

“What news dost thou bring?” Zestial inquires, fingers steepled against the dark surface of his desk, the underside of his coat glowing a virulent green in contrast to the darkness of his form.

“Heaven is in turmoil.” Lucifer says gravely, his voice imbued with a touch more gravitas than is his custom. “One of our number has ascended, joining their ranks.”

Zestial blinks, a skittering rattle breaking the silence. If Alastor didn’t know better, he would say Zestial is utterly shocked by this news. “A soul hast been redeemed?”

“Indeed.” Lucifer confirms, leaning into his staff.

“Who, if I may be permitted to ask?” Zestial inquires carefully, his tall silhouette as foreboding as usual, but with no trace of mockery he usually reserves for Alastor. It would seem his respect for Lucifer is genuine.

“Sir Pentious, the serpent inventor.” Lucifer reveals.

“That meek fellow?”

“Indeed.”

“That is grave news…” Zestial states and slinks from behind the desk to glide along the stone floor, arms hidden once more by his form-fitting cape.

“You see, I hope, my need for secrecy.” Lucifer emphasizes, following Zestial with his gaze.

“That was never in question, I should hope. Now, how may I serve thee?”

Lucifer takes a deep breath before revealing what they came here for. “I suspect one of their number has descended.”

“That hasn’t occurred in millennia!”

“Not an angel – an immortal soul.” Lucifer clarifies. “Adam, the first of humanity.”

“Mine webs art expansive,” Zestial says smoothly. “But I regret to inform thee, sire, that news of this hath not reached mine ears.”

“Do you know of anyone who might possess such delicate information?”

Zestial ponders for a long moment, gliding across the smooth, worn stone of his study, candle-lit sconces casting eerie light upon everything in the room. Alastor’s shadow stirs, eager to crawl into the recesses of the shadow-cast floor. Alastor reins it in. He doubts Zestial would appreciate being spied upon so openly.

“Barring that, is there anyone discreet who might aid us in our search? Secrecy is paramount.” Lucifer adds.

Zestial looks towards their sovereign and stands straighter. “Only one I would trust – Carmilla.”

Lucifer sighs, shoulders slumping a fraction. Alastor realizes there must be some kind of history there. “Does she still hold me in contempt?” Lucifer asks.

“Carmilla hast never spoken ill of thee in my presence.” Zestial says with poise.

“I’m not certain she wishes to see me… We didn’t part on the best of terms.” Lucifer admits, visibly regretful.

“The lady is not prone to anger, sire.”

“May I ask for your intercession in the matter, Zestial?”

“It would be an honour, sire.” Zestial bows once more, more openly respectful than Alastor had ever seen him in nearly eighty years. “Wouldst thou prefer to speak with her at once?”

“That would be much appreciated.” Lucifer states his request. “It is an urgent matter and there’s no time to lose.”

“Might I inquire as to the presence of thine…companion?”

Lucifer chuckles. “You mean to ask whether the conversation would be suitable to his ears?”

“Just so,” Zestial says smoothly, still assiduously ignoring Alastor in favor of fawning over Lucifer.

“He is involved in Hotel matters and my daughter’s endeavor.”

“Ah,” Zestial exclaims. “I was made aware.”

“As such, he is a useful…asset.” Lucifer grins slyly.

“I was not aware his allegiance was to thee, sire.”

“It is now,” Lucifer says smugly, throwing a predatory look Alastor’s way.

He cannot say he really appreciates being discussed as anyone’s property, but he attempts to hide the fact he’s bristling at it. Wouldn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing it got to him in any way. How dare Lucifer show his allegiance so openly, casting his independence in question? Alastor feels anger rising in his gut but swallows it down. Now wasn’t the time to display it, not if they were also going to visit Carmilla Carmine, where he would be even more desperately outnumbered.

“I suggest adjourning to Carmilla’s office.” Zestial offers, the infernal skittering increasing as the eerie green lights in the room dim in preparation of their imminent departure.

Lucifer snaps his fingers and a whirling portal coalesces at the far end of the room, near the door.

“You should probably go first,” Lucifer says, gesturing for Zestial to take the portal, who inclines his head appreciatively and heads through the portal, forced to stoop due to his unnatural tallness. Alastor grins a bit wider at the clearly unintentional, but very amusing slight. Lucifer follows close behind and Alastor strides after him, leaving the gloomy study behind them, the portal fizzing out the moment he steps through.

They find themselves in a spacious rectangular room, whose three sides are made of glass and open to the vista of the city below. Above the windows there are various decorative weapons on display – bows and arrows, spears, halberds, and even a pair of crossed bidents.

 In front of them is a desk with two empty chairs intended for guests and one for the person presiding, Carmilla herself.

“Good afternoon, Carmilla.” Zestial murmurs, and she looks up from some schematics laid out on her desk, eyes going wide as she takes in her unannounced visitors.

“Zestial,” She says warmly, revealing that he is always a welcome guests, even when he comes barging in through a random portal in the middle of the day. Then her eyes slide to Lucifer and Alastor, and her face betrays confusion.“Lucifer?” She inquires as she gets to her feet.

“Hello, Carmilla.” Lucifer greets her, something wistful, almost apologetic in his tone.

“What brings you here? Zestial, my friend?” She addresses the tall, spindly Overlord, relying on him to explain the situation.

“Our Lord hast come with tidings of much import.”

“Is this true?” She asks Lucifer, her countenance turning frosty. She all but sneers in Alastor’s direction. “What is he doing here?”

“I needed a hunting dog.” Lucifer explains, calm as you please, as if he hadn’t just delivered a sold slap to the face.

“Alastor?”  Carmilla has the fucking audacity to laugh. “Since when have you agreed to this?” She needles him, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “Your misdeeds finally caught up with you?”

Before Alastor can get in a single word, Lucifer preempts him. “He has a stake in my daughter’s endeavor; otherwise I’d not have bothered.”

Carmilla gives Alastor a long, thorough look of something approaching disdain and turns her attention back to Lucifer. “Very well, what news merits coming all the way here?” She asks as she sits back down, motioning for the chairs. Zestial sits down first, perfectly comfortable and Lucifer takes that as his cue to be seated as well. Alastor catches his eye for a moment, but Lucifer looks away.

There are no more available chairs. Alastor wonders whether Lucifer might conjure him one, but he supposes that wouldn’t fit with the image of a hunting dog, so he contents himself with standing closely behind Lucifer’s chair, looking over the proceedings like a malevolent shadow.

Lucifer clears his throat. “My daughter’s grand project – it’s not a pipe dream.”

Carmilla looks at him with a mildly alarmed expression. “What do you mean by that, Lucifer?”

“One of ours has been redeemed.” Lucifer drops the bomb on the third unsuspecting victim in the same day. “They arrived in Heaven after Adam’s last unsuccessful extermination.”

“Are you certain?” She asks; expression almost fearful. “Who is the source of this information?”

“Michael.” Lucifer reveals, eliciting a tiny gasp from her.

“He is not the kind to lie…” She murmurs.

“He’s not that creative, for sure.” Lucifer snickers. “That stick of angelic steel up his ass doesn't help either.”

Carmilla chuckles despite herself, then schools her expression back into something resembling neutral. In Alastor’s estimation, he would call that particular look calculating.

“Do you know who ascended?”

 “It was one of the residents at my daughter’s Hotel.” Lucifer explains. “Sir Pentious.”

Carmilla laughs. “That harmless boy? He was one of my favorite customers!”

“Well, you have one less customer now.” Lucifer drawls, voice infused with humor.

“Lucifer!” Carmilla exclaims, leaning forward over the desk, eyes alight. “Do you have any idea of the implications…”

“I know.” Lucifer affirms. “There are many.”

“Adam’s bitches must be raising Hell up there.” Carmilla says with a sneer.

“They are trying. The redemption has put affairs in a bit of a stalemate.”

“I can’t imagine Sera would just allow Lute free rein…” Carmilla trails away, and Alastor wonders, why does she seem to know so much about Heaven’s affairs? “Will there be war?” She asks, her expression a serious mask once more.

“It is a distinct possibility.” Lucifer admits. “I could only protect the Hellborn last time… I am sorry.”

Alastor and Zestial both stare in dead silence as something cold as steel solidifies in her gaze.

“Lucifer… why are you here?” She asks, as stern as Alastor is used to seeing her.

“To ask, rather shamelessly, for your help. I have been a bad friend, and I had abandoned all of you who put faith in me. I’ve failed my Queen, and I have failed my people.”

Carmilla makes no effort to refute that, which means she must agree with the assessment.

“How do you plan to make things right?”

“This should remain a secret.” Lucifer entreats. “Only you and Zestial can know.”

“Know what, exactly?” She inquires frostily.

“I plan on fixing this mess.” Lucifer promises, his voice flooding with determination. “I will take responsibility.”

Alastor expects her to remain as cold as an iceberg, but to his immense surprise, Carmilla’s eyes well up with tears instead. “Will you… ascend to your rightful throne at last?” She asks, her voice trembling.

“Soon.” Lucifer promises. “I still have things to prepare before I do.”

Alastor breathes in, static crackling in the air at the statement. He tamps down on his shadow, who wishes to unfurl over the entire room. Carmilla appears struck and gets to her feet, walking around the desk. Before anyone can do much of anything, Carmilla, the proud Overlord and weapon supplier, drops to her knees before Lucifer and takes his hand. “Morningstar, you have returned! I’d lost all hope…” It appears as if she has a lot more to say, but tears flow out of her eyes and choke her up.

“Please, old friend, don’t kneel before me.”  Lucifer rises and pulls her up. “I have always considered us equals, you know that.”

“You were the best of us.” She says with passion. “The brightest, the kindest, the most compassionate.” She brings Lucifer’s knuckles to her forehead as she leans down, bowing to him. When she straightens out once more, her voice is impossibly soft. “The most aware…”

The realization crashes upon Alastor with impossible force – Carmilla…

She was an angel once.

“I repaid your loyalty poorly, Carmilla.” Lucifer murmurs apologetically. “I am so sorry. I would not even dare ask your forgiveness–”

“You need not ask for it, you have it.” She says resolutely, furiously wiping her tears away. “Lead us out of this depravity Hell’s fallen into!”

“I intend to. I have been idle far too long. I had hoped humanity could govern itself in Hell, the way I wished them to, but… I have failed to provide an example. I intend to correct that.”

“This is splendid news, sire.” Zestial pipes up from his seat. “I shall support thine endeavor.”

“You have no idea how much this warms my heart, Lucifer.” Carmilla’s voice is full of the kind of affection Alastor had never seen her display, not even for her own daughters, at least not in public.

“I am humbled by the generosity of your spirit, truly.” Lucifer smiles at her and she relinquishes the hold on his hand.

“Enough about this,” She says, gathering her wits. “What do you require of me?”

Lucifer looks to Zestial and then back at Carmilla.

“Do you happen to know where Adam might be?” Lucifer straight up asks.

“Adam?” She asks neutrally. “Wasn’t he slain?”

“He was.” Lucifer affirms. “But I have good reason to believe he’s now a demon and roaming somewhere in Pride.”

Carmilla looks Alastor’s way, clearly mistrustful. She then turns to Lucifer and murmurs under her breath: “Are you certain Alastor should be allowed to listen to this?”

“Alastor has some unfinished business with Adam.” Lucifer says with an obnoxious leer. “Something about a near-fatal injury?”

Alastor gives him an angry look of betrayal. Why is Lucifer spilling his business in front of people who are, for all intents and purposes, his enemies? Rivals – at the very least!

Carmilla chuckles. “Ah, is that why you’ve been so meek, Alastor? Had the fear of God put into you?”

Alastor resists the urge to snarl at the insult. His lips curl as he grins widely. “God, as with most everything else, had absolutely nothing to do with it.”

Carmilla, satisfied to have seen him put in his place, turns to Lucifer. “What are you planning on doing with Adam if you find him?”

“Interrogation.” Lucifer discloses. “Later, we’ll see. My dog hasn’t had his dinner yet. Are you hungry, Alastor?”

Alastor seethes.

“He looks hungry to me…” Carmilla drawls, visibly relishing his discomfort. “Are you really going to let that cannibal eat Adam?”

“It will make for a convincing threat, at least…” Lucifer hums happily. “Why?”

“I presumed you might wish to redeem him?” Carmilla observes. “What with this new information coming to light…”

Lucifer laughs heartily. “Oh no, after eons spent undeservedly in Heaven, he merits a very thorough punishment, don’t you think?”

“I concur.” Carmilla says in a low tone.

“So, have you heard any whispers about where the fool is hiding? I presume he fell to our Ring, but there seems to be no trace of him. I wonder whether he’s been slain and is reconstituting… He never could keep his obnoxious mouth shut.”

“Oh, I’ve fair bit more than whispers, my King.” Carmilla says with a sly smile.

Lucifer looks to her for a long moment, parsing her expression before uttering: “You know where he is.”

Carmilla looks supremely proud as she says: “I do.”

Zestial twitches in his seat, the skittering getting worse for a moment.

“I’m sorry, dearest friend.” Carmilla soothes Zestial. “I knew I was sitting on a ticking time-bomb and didn’t want you implicated.”

“Very considerate of thee, Carmilla.” Zestial murmurs, somewhat pacified by the explanation.

“Where are you keeping him?” Lucifer interrupts the touching interlude.

“In my basement.” Carmilla volunteers the information.  “And he’s been there since about a week after the fight at the Hotel? My daughters captured him when they recognized him, engaging in a meaningless brawl near my sector. Pure serendipity.”

Lucifer seems to ponder this new information. Alastor tries to corral his own thoughts. Adam is alive – and already captured! Figures the boastful fool couldn’t keep out of trouble. Well, this was extremely convenient for their plans.

“Thanks to your foresight with the weaponry, we may stand a chance.” Lucifer remarks. “In case of a worst-case scenario.”

“I am already working on new armaments – designing rifles and smaller firearms. As you said – just in case.”

Lucifer nods in gratitude. “You might need to stockpile more instead of selling for a while.”

“I have the numbers mostly figured out. I do lack some refined ore, but with enough time, it shouldn’t be a problem.” Carmilla apprises him.

“If you are in need of raw materials, you need only tell me. It’s the least I can do.”

Carmilla offers him a slight smile. “I would be grateful, Lucifer.”

“Perhaps the hotel could use a turret…” Lucifer says absentmindedly.

“We can work something out.” Carmilla says evenly. “My daughters are also very competent engineers.”

Lucifer smiles at her, and this smile is the same kind he usually reserves for Charlie. “I never congratulated you on the adoption.”

Carmilla all but glows with pride, her usually icy exterior thawing visibly. “Thank you. I am so fortunate to have found Clara and Odette.”

“Daughters are a blessing,” Lucifer says fondly, mind no doubt filling with memories of Charlie’s childhood.

“Hell will need reorganizing, my Lord.” Carmilla returns the conversation back to more interesting topics. “There is a faction that wishes to exterminate Heaven.”

Lucifer sighs, his eyes straying to Alastor, almost as if he is looking for support from his quarter. “That is something we’d like to avoid.” Lucifer says, suddenly tired. “Could you gather information for me? You and Zestial both?”

“Naturally, sire.” Zestial vows.

Carmilla stands up straight as she addresses Lucifer. “It will be done.”

“This remains between us.” Lucifer warns.

“Yes, my Lord,” Carmilla and Zestial say in near unison, bowing.

“Now, lead me to that loathsome roach.” Lucifer commands.

Alastor feels something warm unfurling in his gut at the tone.

“I was forced to gag him after he said odious things to my daughters.” Carmilla informs them. “He’s been in solitary confinement for the past month.”

“Good,” Lucifer says with a satisfied smile. “We want him softened up.”

Alastor manic grin blooms wider. He fervently hopes Lucifer wasn’t just bluffing, as he would like nothing better than to peel off strips of Adam’s flesh to see whether any of his divine taste remains, or his flavor is completely demonic now. He’s even tempted to take a piece to Rosie as the rare delicacy it is. Would Lucifer let him do it? Maybe if he asked nicely…

Zestial gets to his feet, towering over all of them. “I will let thee get back to thine affairs, Carmilla.” He says smoothly and then addresses Lucifer. “A report shalt be delivered via usual methods, sire.”

“Thank you, Zestial. I am deeply grateful for your support.”

“Thou art King.” Zestial bows once more. “No thanks art necessary.”

Lucifer seems mildly uncomfortable with the deference, but he doesn’t complain this time.

“We need to take the elevator down, if you would follow me…” Carmilla motions towards the door.

Alastor can barely contain his excitement. He would meet his would-be slayer soon, and this time he had very little to fear, with Lucifer there. He wonders what kind of pathetic form Adam has assumed upon his fall…

Alastor hopes it’s something utterly undignified.

Chapter Text

The elevator dings on subterranean level five and Carmilla leads them out into a deserted, sterile corridor. Like the rest of the building, the light fixtures are modern and bright, the left side of the corridor lined with doors to what Alastor soon realizes are interrogation rooms and prison cells.

“That’s some prison you got here…” Lucifer whistles as he stops next to one of the cells and peers inside through the double mirror next to the door.

“I don’t use it often,” Carmilla says in a supremely unconcerned voice. 

“At least they get a toilet and a sink…” Lucifer says offhandedly.

“I’m not a complete barbarian.” Carmilla drawls. “Though I was tempted with Adam - that pig.”

“I could always decorate his cell with some hay…” Lucifer grins.

Carmilla smiles at him, clearly not opposed to the idea.

“So, what form did he take?” Lucifer asks, brimming with curiosity.

Carmilla laughs as she breezes past the cells on her stiletto knife pointe shoes. “Oh, it would be a shame to ruin the surprise for you, Lucifer.”

Alastor grins from ear to ear, certain that whatever form Adam has been bestowed upon his recent death, it must be suitably embarrassing for him.

“Well, I hope he’s a hideous swine as he was in life.” Lucifer remarks, expression sharp and gleeful.

“You’ll see…” Carmilla says mysteriously and stops in front of a locked cell. There’s a numbered keypad next to the door.

Lucifer whistles. “Wow, you got a keycard reader too? Fancy.”

“I didn’t want to leave anything to chance.” Carmilla murmurs, pulling a keycard out of her pocket and sliding it through the contraption affixed to the wall. “There are backup generators in case of a blackout as well. Not that he’s going anywhere. And don’t worry, he can’t hear us speaking.”

Alastor peers through the little window and spies a spartan room in smooth metal, outfitted with a narrow sink, a toilet, and a wall-mounted cot. Upon it lies a huddled form, so wrapped up in a blanket that Alastor cannot get an accurate estimation of the person’s size or discern what kind of demon they are dealing with.

“Is he asleep?” Alastor asks.

“I suppose. He gets fed twice a day and doesn’t have much to do. Odette tried to leave him a book to read, but he threw it in the toilet during a spectacularly immature tantrum. He cries occasionally? That can be pretty entertaining.”

“If he’s sleeping, we should wake him up, shouldn’t we?” Lucifer grins nastily.

“You’re free do to as you please with him; I’ll be back in my office.” Carmilla remains unbothered and hands Lucifer her keycard. “You can bring it back once you’re done.”

“Thank you, Carmilla.” Lucifer takes a hold of the keycard and starts flipping it around his fingers. “It will be put to good use.”

“Do put the fear of Hell in him for me, would you? He has no respect for women, I’ve found.”

“Ho ho! We shall fix that promptly…” Alastor says gleefully, to which he only receives an unimpressed look from Carmilla.

“Have fun!” She waves as she disappears down the corridor and steps into the elevator once more, disappearing from view.

Alastor looks around the corridor and spies several surveillance cameras along the walls. How detestable. He gives one of them a cheeky wave.

“Wanna scare the shit out of him?” Lucifer asks him, the grin on his face one of the shit-eating variety.

“I’m listening…” Alastor drawls, intrigued.

“Could you materialize a radio on the floor under his bed?” Lucifer suggests, looking up at Alastor with mischief.

“I could…” Alastor drawls, very much enjoying where this was going.

“And maybe, I don’t know… play something bombastic to wake him from his beauty sleep?”

“Uh-huh.” Alastor plays along, definitely amused. “Such as?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Lucifer plays coy, enjoying their little back and forth. “How about…” and then he beckons Alastor closer with a crooked finger, his expression conspiratorial in the extreme. Alastor obliges his little game with a suffering sigh and leans down so Lucifer can whisper his dastardly little plan in his ear.

“That is positively evil.” Alastor chuckles as he straightens out. “I love it!” He purrs, soaking up Lucifer’s devilish glee.

“Oh, and we can watch his reaction through the mirror here. I want to see him losing his shit.”

“Never knew you had a sadistic streak…” Alastor grins.

“To mess with Adam? Abso-fuckin-lutely!” Lucifer says malevolently.

“It suits you.” Alastor murmurs approvingly. Lucifer gives him a pleased little look, but his eyes carry a soft warning. “Would you like me to gradually increase the volume as well?” Alastor suggests, getting increasingly excited at the prospect of tormenting Adam.

“Now you’re speaking my language,” Lucifer says slyly.

“The language of pettiness?” Alastor jokes.

“You wanna be petty together?” Lucifer all but purrs, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“Let’s break this bitch, my King.” Alastor responds in the smoothest tone he’s capable of.

Lucifer’s eyes stray to Alastor’s lips for a moment. “Behave.” Lucifer warns him.

Alastor waves his fingers and the camera feeds get corrupted. “No one is watching anymore…”

Lucifer looks to the cameras and clearly notices what Alastor has done. Then he snaps his fingers.

“Listening devices have also been disabled.”

“Aw, don’t want Carmilla to see what we’re going to do to him?” Alastor needles him gently.

Lucifer snorts. “More like I don’t want to subject her to your terrible flirting.”

Alastor narrows his eyes at him. “Well, isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”

Lucifer hisses. “Do you want everyone to know?”

“Know what?” Alastor inquires innocently.

“That we’re fucking on the side, that’s what!”

“What, are you ashamed of me, your Majesty?” Alastor asks mockingly.

“What do you want me to do, Alastor? Publish an announcement of our engagement in the Sunday paper?” Lucifer snipes back.

“Oh, would you?” Alastor bats his eyelashes at him, voice scathing. “I thought you’d never ask, darling!”

Lucifer growls and stomps on Alastor’s foot viciously.

“Ow! What was that for?” Alastor bares his teeth in a snarl.

“For playing with me, that’s what.” Lucifer huffs and stands up straighter, dusting the sleeve of his tailcoat. Alastor narrows his eyes at him. Weren’t both of them playing this game?

“Fine.” Alastor lets the matter drop. “I shall conjure a radio and play the tune. When should we make our grand entrance?”

“Oh, we shall observe first. We can enter as the grand finale. I will even let you walk in first cause I wanna see his face!” Lucifer laughs evilly. “Now hush and come here.” He waves Alastor over to the window. Not one to delay his own amusement, Alastor joins Lucifer at their little observation station.

“Ready?” Lucifer asks with an eager expression, fingers of his left hand splayed against the wall.

“Mhm.” Alastor answers, eyes turning to dials as the shadows pool underneath Adam’s cot, pushing a radio out of the darkness and vanishing right after. The light flickers on and the radio plays the music – even though they cannot hear it where they are – the soundproofing of the cell deeply impressive, despite it being made of metal. Lucifer begins to sing in Latin.

“O Fortuna,
velut luna
statu variabilis…”

The form on the bed twitches violently as the first movement of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana starts blasting inside the cell. Alastor can perfectly imagine the choir and the full wind orchestra, along with the tympani smashing in the background, but Lucifer’s singing is probably the most crisp pronunciation of the lyrics he has ever heard, all of the massive choirs losing a lot of the diction required to hear the words clearly enough to understand – not that he could regardless. He’d never bothered learning Latin. Still, certain words are perfectly understandable, the derivatives relatively unchanged after millennia of borrowing from the language.

Alastor grins maniacally as he slides the volume up, and finally, Adam flails on the cot, receiving a rude awakening from his beauty sleep. He sits up, clearly disoriented and bleary-eyed, looking around the cell for the source of the noise.

“There is an intercom system in the cell…” Alastor grins and taps into it. A speaker on the wall spews out a lightly distorted: “What the fuck?”

Lucifer giggles.

Adam’s whiny voice comes through once more: “Carmilla? What the shit is this?”

“Not Carmilla…” Alastor sing-songs, knowing that the wretch cannot hear him over the dramatic orchestra.

“Is this some new kinda torture, huh bitch?” Adam cries at the ceiling. “Cut it out!”

“Not likely.” Alastor says crisply, in absolute delight as he stares at the unfortunate undergoing some much needed music therapy on the other side of the glass. Adam is still wrapped up in a nest of blankets, and his demonic form isn’t readily discernible.

Lucifer keeps singing along.

“Sors immanis
et inanis,
rota tu volubilis…”

Alastor glances down at him, and Lucifer seems to be engaging in some delicious schadenfreude at the moment. Well, good for him. Alastor returns his gaze back to the cell. In his periphery, Lucifer waves his fingers around and a golden sparkle settles over the radio. Adam keeps looking around and finally seems to engage his brain, realizing that the noise is coming from below him. He leans down and curses again, attempting to grab the device, upon which he receives a nasty shock, pulling his hand away with a hiss.

“You booby-trapping my cell now, bitch? Which of your nasty hoe daughters came up with this, huh? The uggo or the fuggo, huh?”

“Language.” Alastor tuts. “Someone should wash his mouth out with soap…”

Lucifer stops singing for a moment and looks up at him in glee, then snaps his fingers.

“Argh!” Adam gags and starts spitting out soap lather accompanied with some bubbles.

Alastor stares at Lucifer in blatant appreciation. “I love your deviant little mind.” He purrs, Lucifer giving him a desirous, smoldering look.

“You should reward me for going along with your ideas, then.” Lucifer teases.

Why does Lucifer have to be so fucking alluring? It was positively beastly of him. Alastor makes a displeased little grunt but pulls Lucifer up regardless, stealing a kiss from his insolent mouth. As Adam keeps retching out soap on the other side of the glass, Lucifer moans into the kiss, as eager as ever for the touch and the paltry affection the kiss mimics so adeptly. It occurs to Alastor, then, that they are doing a dangerous thing in a semi-public space. Despite no one watching or listening in, one of Carmilla’s daughters or staff could walk in at any moment.

Logically, he presumes Carmilla has blockaded access while they are here, but they could never be too careful…

Lucifer opens his mouth to him with a whine, extending an open invitation Alastor knows he shouldn’t take but does anyways, deepening the kiss as he presses Lucifer into the wall, his red talons splayed against the glass, obscuring the view of the prisoner on the inside. Muted, he can hear the sound of running water, spitting and gargling, but Lucifer steals all of his attention with his mewling little gasps.

They have no time for this, unless they want to ruin their grand entrance… Reluctantly, he pulls away from the kiss, Lucifer making a displeased little noise in the back of his throat.

“Ready?” Alastor asks and Lucifer nods, shaking his head for a moment to clear his mind.

“Yeah, go in first.”

Alastor steps away from Lucifer, his crimson eyes still fixated upon him.

Then, as the music blares a frenetic finale, he grabs the handle on the door and yanks it open dramatically, standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the harsh light of the corridor behind him.

Adam is hunched over the sink, water still running, but he looks up, all wrapped up in a blanket, and stares at the doorway.

“Who the f–“

“Did you miss me?” Alastor says with a theatrical flourish.

“You again, freak? I thought I finished you off!” Adam blurts out and shuts the water off.

“It was a tactical retreat.” Alastor says smugly.

“I whooped your ass!” Adam crows indignantly.

“Mhm, want to try again?” Alastor antagonizes him, knowing full well Adam is unlikely to be stronger than him for the moment.

That’s the moment Lucifer pops in behind Alastor and strolls into the cell with a carefree grin.

“Rise and shine, bitch!” Lucifer exclaims, beaming at the (literally) captive audience.

“You!!” Adam says indignantly and wraps himself tighter in the blanket in an effort to hide himself away.

“I felt I should extend you a warm welcome,” Lucifer says in a deceptively chipper tone. “You should have found me when you dropped by, we could have caught up!”

“Lucifer! My dude!” Adam seems to change tack, his tone going all chummy as he attempts to suck up to the most powerful person in the room. “Are you gonna get me out of this hellhole?”

Lucifer smirks. “I don’t know, buddy… it seems to me like you got here on your own merit?”

“No, I’m serious, this has got to be some kind of a mistake – I’m a winner, not a sinner! Get me a call with upstairs; I’m sure there was a mix-up!  Tell Sera, she’ll vouch for me!”

“You sure about that?” Lucifer says in a high voice, playing up his skepticism.

“Yeah, dude – I’m sure!” Adam says, panic starting to surface. “Me and Sera, we’re tight! I’m sure she’d arrange for me to be taken back up, ha ha!”

“Have you looked in the mirror recently?” Lucifer asks blithely as he swans around the room, tapping his cane against the cot. “Ohh, sturdy! Must be good for your back…”

Alastor snickers at Lucifer’s antics.

“What are you laughing at, bitch?” Adam snarls at Alastor, clearly affronted.

“Oh, I am laughing at how pathetic the ‘first man’ turned out to be. Humanity really sprang from inferior stock…tell me… what are you trying to hide behind that blanket so desperately, hmm?”

Adam blanches and clutches the fabric tightly, pale fingers holding the blanket to his body in a death grip. “N-nothing. It’s just cold down here!”

Lucifer starts laughing in earnest. “Cold? In Hell? Ha!”

“Not very imaginative, are you?” Alastor needles Adam ruthlessly, leaned against his staff. “If that was the best lie you managed to come up with.”

“Who died and made you a fucking lie critic, huh?” Adam claps back, but the retort lacks the requisite bite to actually hurt.

“A ha ha! What a funny fellow!” Alastor grins at him, smile near bursting at the seams as his shadow crawls along the floor and materializes right behind Adam, predatory hands at the ready. Alastor looks to Lucifer. “Shall we take a peek behind the curtain?”

Lucifer takes in the shadow looming behind Adam and titters, clearly delighted by Alastor’s idea. “Yes, please!”

“What are you on abou–NO!” Adam cries out as Alastor’s shadow forcefully rips the blanket off of him. “No, give it back – give it BACK!!” The sheer anguish in that voice is positively delectable, and it’s only made better when the shadow flees with the blanket, cackling silently, Adam running after it in sheer desperation.

“Chill out,” Lucifer giggles and snaps his fingers – making the blanket disappear in a swirl of red sparkles. “Don’t get your…loincloth in a twist?”

Adam halts in the middle of the cell, as it finally dawns on him that he is… well. In a rather shocking state of dishabille. Alastor tilts his head curiously. Has Adam shrunk? How delightful! And yes, Lucifer had been right, Adam is currently only wearing a rather sad-looking loincloth and some sparse tufts of…feathers?

“What kind of bird is that?” Alastor asks, genuinely curious as he takes in the unnerving and utterly unflattering sight. Adam’s pudgy body is covered with patches of mottled brown plumage, the feathers covering his neck a muted green. Out of his visibly unwashed and greasy hair sticks a brush-like feathery mohawk. There are no wings, but there is a sizeable, trailing tail. Now that the blanket has been vanished, Alastor notices the sheer, absurd length of it. It looks bedraggled and like a hellhound had been chewing on it recently, but something about the absurdly long tail feathers makes him blurt out: “A peacock?”

Adam covers his front as best as he can, and much to Alastor’s satisfaction, his detestable face attains a blotchy, spectacularly ugly flush.

“O ho ho!” Lucifer chuckles malevolently. “Oh no no no… take a better look, Alastor.” Lucifer says with glee. “Doesn’t it seem a bit… drab to you?”

Adam’s mortification ratchets up another notch. “Hey…”

“You are right!” Alastor exclaims in delight as he circles around Adam, Lucifer moving in the opposite direction, both of them trapping the feathery wretch like a pair of hungry sharks. “Peacock feathers are supposed to be a brilliant blue, correct?”

“Uh-huh.” Lucifer confirms, tongue curled against his teeth as he inspects Adam like he was a defective product Lucifer was reluctant to purchase. “Sure are. Also, the eyes on the tail are supposed to be a lustrous emerald green…does this look green to you, Alastor?”

“It sure does not,” Alastor plays along. “How impractical…you couldn’t round the bend without breaking this ridiculously impractical thing… I imagine it’s good for sweeping the streets?” Alastor remarks, looking at Lucifer, who is having a blast. “Are you in need of a street sweeper, my Lord?”

 “Now that’s an idea!”  Lucifer starts laughing uproariously, voice high and thrilled.

“Since when are you two freaks chummy?” Adam asks with narrowed eyes, but his question is ignored.

“If not for the tail, I would have assumed it was some kind of badly plucked chicken?” Alastor adds.

Lucifer cackles in demented delight. “You are correct! Ha!”

“Not a chicken!” Adam cries out indignantly.

“Mhm, yeah, that tail begs to differ, my friend.” Lucifer says with a mean gleam in his eyes. “Alastor?”

“Yes, Lucifer?”

“Are you aware that a lot of female bird species have different coloring than their male counterparts?”

“I sure am!” Alastor grins nastily, knowing exactly where Lucifer is going with this as they keep circling Adam, who is trying, very unsuccessfully, to shrink into himself. “Aren’t females usually brown and drab?”

“Oooh, you get a gold star!” Lucifer flashes him a grin.

“Guys, stop–“

“You see, Adam here isn’t a peacock,” Lucifer drawls as if he were narrating a nature documentary. “What we have here, is a wonderful little peahen!”

“Ha ha!” Alastor cackles, savoring Adam’s humiliation.

“It’s not funny!” Adam cries out, voice choked.

“Oh, I agree.” Lucifer says in a more serious tone.

“You…agree?” Adam blinks, surprised.

Oh, this was too easy.

“Yes, it’s not funny at all.” Alastor nods along sagely. “It’s–“

Lucifer finishes for him: “–pathetic?”

Alastor’s smile is absolutely predatory as he tacks on: “Ridiculous.”

Lucifer adds: “Hilarious!”

“Are you done yet?” Adam asks, but his eyes are welling up with tears as he’s holding himself tightly and trembling.

“What is it, Adam? Not the biggest rooster anymore?” Lucifer says snidely, making Alastor howl with laughter.

“Good one,” Alastor praises Lucifer.

“Right?” Lucifer smirks in his general direction. “I was pretty proud of that one.” Lucifer’s merciless gaze lands on Adam once more. “Speaking of pride…how’s this dad bod working out for you? Nabbed any chicks with it?”

Alastor snorts at the awful joke. His shadow slinks behind Adam and plucks out one of his tail feathers.

“Ow!” Adam yelps in pain and jumps a foot into the air. “The fuck is your problem?”

“I thought maybe our illustrious King needed a new broom?” Alastor says in a sickly sweet tone.

“This is fucking creepy, you know guys?” Adam says warily as he looks between them. The shadow skips over to Lucifer and presents the plucked out feather in the manner of a knight offering his sword to his liege lord.

“Aww,” Lucifer coos as he accepts the offering. “You know, a few more of these could make a decent fan…” He remarks as he inspects the sad, stringy feather.

“Need a new eunuch attendant?” Alastor’s grin is positively feral.

Lucifer barks out a laugh and the feather disappears in a wash of red sparkles.

“What happened to the old one?” Adam asks, expression deeply perturbed. “Wait – eunuch??”

Alastor knows full well Lucifer has no attendants, eunuch or otherwise, but Adam doesn’t know that…

“I ate him.” Alastor purrs next to Adam’s ear, who proceeds to scream like a little girl.

“You what??”

“I’m a cannibal, my dear.” Alastor licks his teeth suggestively. “And I was feeling a bit…peckish.”

Lucifer is straight up cackling, coming to a halt as he clutches his stomach to process his little fit of hilarity.

Adam looks to Lucifer in a panic. “You’re not actually gonna let this bitch eat me, are you??”

Lucifer turns to howl and slap at the wall, the metal surface echoing in the mostly empty cell.

“Are you?” Adam asks in a pathetically pleading tone.

“Surely I could take a little bite… I’ve had pheasant before… but never peacock. I bet you taste like poultry?” Alastor continues to torment him. “Except more gamey?”

“Lucifeeeeeeeeeeeer!” Adam cries out and runs towards Lucifer to grab at his shoulders and place him between Alastor and himself like a living shield. “Save me from this lunatic!”

“Let me flay him?” Alastor purrs at Lucifer. “Just a small strip off of his flank? It’s not as if he’ll be going anywhere anytime soon…”

Lucifer giggles. “Do you need a knife, Alastor?”

Adam eyeballs the exit and makes a mad dash for it, only to have the door of the cell slam in his face. “No!” He cries out. “Carmilla! They’re gonna kill me – help!!”

“Nobody is listening…” Alastor purrs. “I’ve disabled the system.”

“You…what?” Adam turns around, back plastered against the unyielding metal door to his cell.

“I’ve had a lot of practice around unwanted video recording equipment, you see.” Alastor drawls. “I dislike having my likeness captured for nefarious purposes.”

“The only one with the nefarious purposes here is you!” Adam cries, panicked eyes darting Lucifer’s way only to utter a terrified whimper when he realizes Lucifer is toying with a slender hunting knife.

Alastor hisses on an indrawn breath as Lucifer flips the knife over in his fingers, offering it to Alastor, handle first. He gets the urge to lodge the knife in Adam’s gurgling throat and fuck Lucifer right here, in the middle of the cell. Alastor’s fingers caress the pretty wooden handle and gently pluck the knife out of Lucifer’s hand, not breaking eye contact for a second.

“Stop – just stop!” Adam begs. “What do you want from me?”

Lucifer smirks. Alastor wants to lick at those mocking lips as Adam bleeds out, twitching on the floor next to them.

“What makes you think I want anything except your suffering?” Lucifer asks in an airy tone.

“If you wanted me to suffer, you could’ve done it yourself, not sicced your crazy – whatever the fuck this freak is to you – on me!”

“Alastor is co-host of my daughter’s Hotel, bitch.” Lucifer’s voice is dripping with venom. “Remember my daughter, sinner?”

“I ain’t a sinner!” Adam whines.

“Hm, that’s not how this works.” Lucifer drawls as he extends his cane to bring Adam’s chin up. “See, Heaven might have no fucking clue what gets winners past the pearly gates, but in my house? I know exactly what gets you bitches down here.”

Alastor frowns.

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Adam insists, quivering against the door.

Lucifer snarls and jams his scepter savagely into Adam’s throat; choking him and making him cough and sputter.

“You tried to KILL my daughter, you miserable little fuck! Despite the deal I made with Heaven that Hellborn were not to be touched in the exterminations!”

Adam’s eyes are watering. “I – didn’t – still alive!”

“And you killed Dazzle–” Lucifer reminds him. “–which is definitely in violation of the agreement.”

“You’re hounding me because I killed her fucking pet? Are you shitting me?” Adam fights back, spittle flying out of his disgusting maw.

“Are you disrespecting me?” Lucifer looks to Adam incredulously before turning to Alastor. “Is he seriously disrespecting me right now?”

“He most certainly is, my King.” Alastor purrs, playing with the knife in his hands. “Want me to teach him the error of his ways?”

“No, wait!” Adam cries out, pleading with Lucifer. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I killed the fucking dragon trying to eat my face–“

“Is it me or does that apology sound insincere to you?” Lucifer tilts his head at Alastor, lips pursed and brows drawn.

“Oh it was most insincere.” Alastor nods sagely. “The most pathetic apology I’ve ever heard.”

“The fuck is wrong with you freaks?” Adam squeals, shaking in fear.

“Is he really asking me that?” Lucifer asks Alastor, who shrugs theatrically.

“Apparently he is. I guess being the chief exorcist got to his head…”

“You bring up an excellent point, Alastor!” Lucifer exclaims as he takes a hold of his apple staff with both hands. “How do you think the masses would feel if they knew Adam had fallen? Hmm… how many grieving demons do you think there are in Pentagram City?”

“Oh, tens of thousands, at least?” Alastor ventures a guess.

“Probably over a hundred thousand in my estimation?” Lucifer says. “Now, imagine what a mob of a hundred thousand pissed-off demons would do to you if we broadcasted your mug on the evening news?”

“Ohhhh, what a capital idea!” Alastor exclaims. “We could make it a national sport, what do you think?”

“I always wanted to go hunting…” Lucifer says in a suggestive tone.

“Hey, please, I don’t think that’s necessary…” Adam blurts out, shivering like a leaf.

“Aw, where did all that bravado go?” Alastor asks.

“Yeah, you too chicken, Adam?” Lucifer teases mercilessly. “I see you’re fresh out of that big dick energy, wah wah wah waaah.” Lucifer mimes a limp dick.

“Just tell me what you want from me!” Adam cries out, actual tears spilling out of his beady little eyes.

Lucifer takes a deep breath as he ponders the question. Alastor gets the distinct impression Lucifer has known all along what he was going to ask. “How does it feel, losing that vaunted sense of moral superiority you’ve been milking for millennia?”

Alastor sucks in a breath. How delicious!

“I keep telling you, I’m here by mistake! Why would killing demon scum count as a sin?”

Alastor twirls the knife in his hand – Adam has a good point.

“Because you were literally extinguishing their souls forever?” Lucifer remarks.

“So what?” Adam ugly laughs, still frazzled.

“The creator made souls immortal and you went against that.” Lucifer sneers. “Do you think you’re literally smarter than God?”

“They were sorted as trash!”

Alastor can tell the moment Lucifer actually becomes upset. “It was not your call to make.”

“You fucking agreed to it, hypocrite!” Adam spits back.

Lucifer’s demonic attributes explode out of him – crimson horns, black barbed tail, eyes blazing crimson and gold. “I did it to protect my DAUGHTER, you degenerate!”

“Yea, so stop fucking pretending that you give a shit about the rest of demon-kind!”

Alastor has had enough. He vanishes the staff tucked under his arm, then snatches Adam by his ridiculous feathered mohawk and viciously yanks his head backwards. He holds Adam in a tight grip, bringing the gleaming blade to his feather-covered neck.

“You will show respect, or you will answer to me.”

Adam whimpers in his grasp.

“I don’t think he knows.” Lucifer murmurs playfully.

“K-know what?” Adam asks, straining pitifully in Alastor’s grasp.

“Yeah, you weren’t taking out the trash, buddy…” Lucifer says mildly. “You were committing genocide.”

“You outta your – ow! –damn mind? I was sanctioned!”

“You enjoyed murdering people, you sicko.” Lucifer growls at Adam. “You hunted them for fucking sport.”

“Not p-people,” Adam stammers, trembling and straining in Alastor’s unyielding grip. “D-demons!”

“Immortal souls.” Lucifer emphasizes.

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Adam insists.

“Awww,” Lucifer coos as he pats Adam on the cheek condescendingly. “Then why are you in Hell?”

Adam swallows, the cartilage in his throat scraping against the blade of Alastor’s knife.

“Devil got your tongue?” Alastor purrs menacingly against Adam’s ear.

“I’ll give you whatever you w-want, just…get this freak off me!”

“Aw, am I the bad cop, Lucifer?” Alastor asks with a wry smile.

“Apparently?” Lucifer shrugs. “Bad cop, worse cop?” He says, pointing first to himself and then to Alastor.

Alastor chuckles at the theatrics. This was true, though Adam should definitely be more afraid of Lucifer at this point.

“Anything I want?” Lucifer purrs. “You are weak as shit now… what do you even have to bargain with, M-m-m-m-Adam?”

Oh, Lucifer can be so deliciously cruel when he wants to!

“L-Lilith!” Adam exclaims, panicked.

Lucifer goes deathly quiet, tail swishing restlessly behind him. “What about my wife?”

Alastor breathes down Adam’s neck, wondering how much damage he could do if he bit down and shook the newly-minted demon like a rag roll until the flesh gave. Alastor bets Adam tastes supremely unappetizing.

“I-I can t-tell you where she is!”

“And why would you know her whereabouts?” Lucifer asks, voice dangerously low.

“B-because I got her out of Hell!”

“Excuse me?” Lucifer asks, voice between stricken and incandescent with rage.

“Y-yeah! She wanted to skip town, so she got in touch with me – made a deal to get her a nice long vacay in Heaven!”

Lucifer snarls.

“You know, she still has a killer bod, even after having a kid, spends a lot of her time sunning on the beach–“

Lucifer makes a fist and punches Adam in the stomach, making the demon double over, straight into the blade of Alastor’s knife, which leaves a nick on his throat, but doesn’t produce a significant enough injury due to Alastor’s superior reflexes.

“Shall I maim him a little for his insolence?” Alastor inquires in a pleasant voice.

“N-no!” Adam whimpers.

Lucifer’s countenance is icy as he drawls in a flat tone: “Take a finger.”

“What?!” Adam gasps. “Lucifer!”

“I would have your tongue if I didn’t need you to speak. But as Alastor so helpfully pointed out earlier, you won’t be going anywhere anytime soon, so… how should I punish you?”

 “Which finger do you want?” Alastor asks as his tendrils shoot out of the shadows to grip and immobilize Adam’s arms. “Middle finger so he is marginally less capable of being insulting?”

“Stop!” Adam pleads. “Lucifer, please!”

“Or do you want his thumb so he cannot grip anything?” Alastor asks in a honeyed voice. “It would make masturbation significantly more difficult, I hear…”

“NO!” Adam screams, big fat tears rolling down his face.

“What’s your dominant hand, again?” Lucifer asks Adam.

“Why the fuck you wanna know that??” Adam starts hyperventilating.

“So Alastor knows which finger to take off, that’s why.” Lucifer says blithely.

Adam whimpers and the smell of urine hits everyone in the room.

“Ugh,” Alastor steps away, abandoning his grip on Adam’s hair. “That’s disgusting.”

“Aww, now look what you’ve done.” Lucifer tuts. “Do I need to change your diaper, Adam?”

“N-no – stop! I’m begging you!”

“Did you stop when you and your homicidal bitches were murdering my people by the millions?”

“I–I’m sorry!” Adam sobs.

“You’re only sorry because you got caught.” Lucifer’s words are colder than the steel Alastor is brandishing. “You’re only saying sorry because you think that’s what I want to hear.”

“I believe he’s right handed.” Alastor supplies, eager to be of help in the riveting proceedings. If this was what Lucifer did for fun, Alastor would happily lend a hand anytime.

“Take his right index.”

Adam screams shrilly, fighting Alastor’s tendrils, but they are unyielding.

“How does it feel?” Lucifer asks. “Being utterly helpless as someone comes at you with murderous intent?”

“No! Nonono-please! PLEASE!” Adam cries, shaking pathetically as he begs for mercy he was incapable of showing to all the souls he extinguished.

“How many times have you heard people screaming that at you as you slaughtered them?” Lucifer’s voice remains unyielding.

“I’m soh-sohhn-rry!” Adam sobs as Alastor takes hold of his hand.

“You know,” Alastor says conversationally. “You should be grateful for my expertise. I can make a clean cut.”

“Y-you’re both fucking psycho!” Adam cries out, shrilly, eyes swimming with tears.

“Be grateful I’m only taking one finger, bitch.” Lucifer says coldly. “If I got my pound of flesh for every soul you murdered in cold blood, Alastor here would be a well-fed demon for several millennia.”

“Are you trying to give me indigestion?” Alastor asks, brows shooting up his forehead.

“You’re right; you’d probably die of food poisoning…”

“S-see? I probably t-taste bad?” Adam tries to weasel out of his well-deserved punishment.

“Oh, let me be the judge of that,” Alastor’s laughter is mocking as he relishes Adam’s utter panic, bringing the tip of the knife to Adam’s knuckles.

“I’ll make a deal! Anything you want!” Adam sobs, barely coherent as he falls to pieces mentally in front of their very eyes.

Lucifer extends his hand, signaling for Alastor to stay his hand vis-à-vis dismemberment.

“Anything I want, huh?” Lucifer drawls. “What’ve you got to offer me?”

“I’ll do whatever you want, just–please!”

Alastor removes the blade from Adam’s knuckles, but can’t help but tug on his index finger just to fuck with him. His efforts yield him a frankly embarrassing high-pitched scream.

“You scream like a little girl.” Alastor laughs at him.

“Y-yeah?” Adam shakes. “S-spent a lot of time making little girls scream, freak?”

Alastor snarls at him, horns exploding out of his head. “How dare you!”

“Adam, shut your fucking trap or I’ll let Alastor eat more than just a finger.” Lucifer threatens, and it’s seemingly effective, because Adam hangs his head and nods, hiccupping like the pathetic sack of manure he is.

“Here’s the deal I propose,” Lucifer says mildly. “You are not allowed to hurt anyone in Hell, be they sinner or Hellborn, for the rest of eternity. And by hurt, I mean physically, emotionally, or psychologically. Which means, every time you insult someone, you will get a nasty, debilitating shock somewhere in your body. If you try to attack someone, any injury or pain you inflict will be returned to you three-fold.”

“You...you’re trying to neuter me!” Adam says, scandalized.

“If you want to be actually neutered, keep talking back to me.” Lucifer drawls, deeply unimpressed.

“But…how will I defend myself?”

“That’s the beauty of it…” Lucifer sneers at him. “You won’t.”

Alastor admires the ruthless exactitude of Lucifer’s terms.

“And w-what do I get in return?” Adam stammers.

“I get you into nicer accommodations.”

“I get a better cell?” Adam asks incredulously. “That’s it?”

“You get a chance to change my mind regarding that call to Sera you so desperately want.”

“Those terms are shit!” Adam complains.

Lucifer turns to Alastor and says: “Chop, chop.”

“No! I’ll take it!” Adam squirms, scraping his throat raw. “I’ll take the deal!”

“Wonderful!” Lucifer exclaims cheerfully. “Release him, Alastor.”

It is only with the greatest reluctance that Alastor allows his tendrils to melt away. Adam staggers, sagging against the door and starts rubbing his bruised wrists.

With a flourish of his fingers, Lucifer produces a written contract, the scroll unfurling in a blaze of golden light. “Feel free to read over the terms before signing.” Lucifer says lightly as he hands the scroll over to Adam, whose brows knit as he reads over the contents of the contract. He steps into the room, absorbed in the text and muttering something under his breath.

Lucifer unlocks the door to the cell and opens it wide. Alastor throws him a curious glance, but Lucifer doesn’t meet his gaze, his fingers snapping to produce a golden fountain pen, which he holds up, waiting for Adam to turn around.

“Where are you going to keep him?” Alastor murmurs under his breath.

“Someplace safe.” Lucifer offers a vague answer.

Adam turns around and gives the both of them a wary look. Alastor smiles at him, pleased to note that Adam shudders. Lucifer remains standing in the same place, the golden fountain pen on offer.

Adam approaches with all the enthusiasm of a man being sent to the gallows and takes the pen out of Lucifer’s hand with the air of complete defeat.

“You won’t let the hordes of demons have me?” Adam asks, warily.

“I won’t let them have you. Unless you’re stupid enough to escape on your own?”

“Where the fuck would I go in this demon-infested Hellhole?” Adam asks as he plasters the contract to the wall and signs it. The signature glows gold and then turns blood red, flashing briefly before the scroll rolls itself up and disappears with a puff of crimson smoke. The pen vanishes with a pop.

“Why, you’re a demon too.” Lucifer remarks. “You might fit right in? Well, as long as you aren’t stupid enough to tell anyone your real name and previous occupation.”

“I’m not that dumb, thanks.” Adam mutters resentfully. “Now take me out of this hole.”

“Mhm.” Lucifer hums softly as he turns around, taking in the cell with a critical eye. With a snap of his fingers, the floor turns into cheerful yellow tile, the toilet and the sink turn into porcelain and the cot transforms into a narrow bed, complete with crisp white bedding and a fluffy pillow.

Alastor places a fist over his mouth – that clever devil!

“What are you doing?” Adam asks, perturbed.

“Putting you into nicer accommodations, what does it look like?” He answers without even sparing Adam a glance, and as he waves his fingers, the metallic walls are covered with lightly star-patterned beige wallpaper. Then he conjures a tiny round table, a single wooden chair and as a final, massive fuck you, he summons a mobile over Adam’s bed – a cutesy contraption with stuffed duckies, fishes and clouds.

The décor is eclectic, and not exactly a massive improvement. Alastor’s radio is now resting upon a tiny shelf over Adam’s bed.

“You lied to me!” Adam cries out, indignant. “You’re leaving me here to rot!”

“I never stated I would get you out of here,” Lucifer says coldly. “Only that I would get you into a nicer room. Here you go – this is nicer, isn’t it?”

Alastor has to bite his tongue not to express the depth of his appreciation for Lucifer’s ploy.

“You bitch!” Adam spits out and then yelps as he receives the punishment from the pact he’s just signed. “Oww! The fuck?”

“You just tried to insult me?” Lucifer shrugs.

“This deal is unfair!”

“You signed it of your own free will.” Lucifer reminds him.

“I was coerced!”

“The door to the cell was open…” Alastor remarks. “Technically…you were free.”

Lucifer’s mouth stretches into a sly smirk. Oh, he was brilliant. Alastor gets the urge to kiss him again.

“Oh, and the radio stays here.” Lucifer declares, as self-satisfied as the proverbial cat who got the cream.

“The radio I can’t even touch?” Adam reminds him.

“The very same.”

“So… you’re gonna let the cannibal torture me with shitty music whenever he feels like it?” Adam asks, completely aghast.

Alastor’s grin grows utterly demonic.

“Yep!” Lucifer exclaims cheerfully. “Unless you would prefer he snacks on you instead?”

“Fuck no!” Adam shudders.

“Then shut up and be grateful I’m being so nice to you.” Lucifer offers as a parting shot, then turns around on his heel. “Seeya!” He says goodbye over his shoulder, tilting his hat with his cane and strolls out of the cell, as calm as you please.

Alastor makes a disturbing slurping noise at Adam, enjoying the way the demon flinches, then follows Lucifer out, still playing with the knife he (sadly) never got to use. The doors to the cell slam shut behind them.

The moment they are left isolated from the noise in the cell, Alastor kills the intercom system and starts laughing like a lunatic.

“Good job in there.” Lucifer praises him.

“That was–“ Alastor exclaims exultantly: “–spectacular!”

Lucifer giggles. “Aw, I’m so glad you approve.”

“May I keep the knife?” Alastor asks, head tilted as he bats his eyelashes coquettishly.

“I mean… you asked so nicely…” Lucifer drawls, looking up at him with a seductive little gleam in his eyes.

Alastor rends open a small pocket dimension and deposits the knife there before focusing his full attention back where it belongs – on Lucifer. “We should do this more often.” Alastor says suggestively, leaning down.

“What exactly?” Lucifer teases, leaning against the wall.

“Bad cop, worse cop?” Alastor borrows Lucifer’s words.

Lucifer laughs heartily and reaches out to lightly tug on Alastor’s bowtie. “You looked like you wanted to devour me, back in there.”

“I wanted to fuck you on the floor as he gurgled his last breath, smeared against the nearest wall.”

Lucifer seems to be fighting a smile – and losing. “Dirty.”

“Apparently, that’s the effect you have on me.”

Lucifer smiles, a bashful little thing as he looks down. “You don’t seem aroused down there…”

Alastor taps his forehead. “I’m aroused up here.”

“I’ll take that…” Lucifer says slyly.

And I’ll take this, Alastor thinks as he descends on Lucifer’s lips, kissing him the way he wanted in the cell. Lucifer’s mouth is scalding like a furnace and Alastor can still faintly taste the bitterness of coffee on that forked tongue, lapping eagerly against his. He moans into the kiss, Lucifer responding to him beautifully. Lucifer’s cane clatters onto the floor and his hands grab onto the lapels of Alastor’s coat, but Alastor doesn’t let them linger there. His fingers tangle with Lucifer’s and pull his arms away. He pins Lucifer’s hands against the wall, fingers still intertwined and nips at his lips. “Hnnh–Alastor…” Lucifer whines as he bucks his hips into him. Alastor grunts and sticks his thigh between Lucifer’s legs, pressing against the hardness he finds there. “Shit…if you do that, I’m going to rut against you…” Lucifer warns him, looking mildly drugged.

“Do it.” Alastor allows it.

“F-fuck.” Lucifer mutters and starts moving his hips. Each swivel is accompanied with soft panting, and Alastor cannot tear his eyes away from Lucifer, who is moving underneath him, so yielding and soft, face faintly flushed.

Is this how it normally feels for others who engage in this kind of activity? Hot and mildly sticky and… exciting? Alastor bucks into Lucifer, pinning him more tightly against the wall. Lucifer moans, his mouth falling open slightly. Alastor loses the battle with gravity and crashes into Lucifer’s mouth, kissing him insistently as they move against each other in stuttering counterpoint, rutting mindlessly in the middle of the prison corridor. He’s half-hard, at best, but it doesn’t matter, what with Lucifer mewling into his mouth helplessly as Alastor all but fucks him into the wall.

He wants Lucifer.

Desires him soft and pliant and eager underneath him.

So what if someone barges in on them? In that moment, Alastor honestly couldn’t give less of a damn. He groans into Lucifer’s mouth, who shudders underneath him and goes lax with a soft little whine. Was that… Alastor breaks the kiss and looks down, where he can feel a damp patch spreading across Lucifer’s pristine trousers.

“You…climaxed?” Alastor asks, making Lucifer huff out a silly little giggle.

“Sure did,” Lucifer says with a dopey little smile.

“Good,” Alastor says simply and removes his leg.

Lucifer stretches a bit with a pleased little hum and his fingers twitch, a wash of golden sparkles shimmering over his crotch as he vanishes the mess they made.

“Need help?” Lucifer asks with a mellow smile.

“That won’t be necessary.” Alastor assures him, his lower half once more perfectly disinterested in sexual matters. He slowly relinquishes his hold on Lucifer’s hands.

 Lucifer yawns and bends forward to pick up his fallen staff.

“We should return the keycard to Carmilla…”

“After you,” Alastor says with a self-satisfied grin. 

What a productive afternoon!

Chapter Text

The next week is a bit of a blur, their morning routine settling into coffee and reading the news, breakfast usually spent with the rest of the Hotel residents and staff, except on Wednesdays, when Lucifer had a set breakfast date with his daughter. Lucifer seemed in a better mood overall, but there were still times when he would drift off into melancholia, mind lost somewhere far away. The first time Alastor noticed it, he asked Lucifer to dance and put on lively music as a distraction. It seemed Lucifer was just as apt at Charleston as he was at the waltz. In the afternoons, Lucifer would either disappear to do his kingly duties, or would sequester himself away with Vaggie, practicing their super secret act for the talent show, steadfastly refusing to elaborate on what it was, despite Alastor’s persistent efforts to find out.

“You’ll find out along with everyone else, now go and practice with your own partner and stop pestering me.”

To which Alastor replied that there was nothing to practice since he had no partner yet.

Lucifer gave him a half-hearted shrug and strolled away, waving to Vaggie who was waiting for him at the end of the corridor.

After their little encounter with Adam, Lucifer didn’t really bring it up, clearly satisfied the newly minted demon was defanged and safely tucked away for the moment. Much to Alastor’s surprise, Lucifer’s near inexhaustible libido also seemed sated for the moment, as he made no moves on Alastor despite them spending at least an hour together daily. Alastor was almost afraid to jinx their little routine of dancing that was starting to emerge. Lucifer deemed it good practice for the lightning round, while Alastor secretly deemed it good fun. If this was what Lucifer considered friendship, it wasn’t so bad – as Alastor could certainly see himself getting accustomed to it in short order. More often than not, Lucifer would also either eschew his right to the three truths daily, or would ask very banal things, such as Alastor’s favorite color, food, or beverage (crimson, maman’s jambalaya, and coffee/single malt). Alastor was honestly bemused by it all. When he asked Lucifer as to why he was wasting his questions, the only response he got was laughter and a wry: “Is it a crime to want to get to know you better?”

Alastor still had no response to that, but it did make him wonder… did Lucifer genuinely want to spend time with him? What with being incredibly lax with the upholding of their deal, Alastor was beginning to waver in his resolve to stay distant from Lucifer. Then he’d remember that he also used a similar tactic of holding his thralls on a long, loose leash when they weren’t needed and came to the conclusion that Lucifer was likely doing the same.

This was all a game, after all. A game Alastor didn’t want to lose.

So he went to Cannibal town to purchase some fresh spices to make a delicious Cajun blend, just like his maman used to make. He presumed Lucifer preferred the more fancy fare, but bully for him – Alastor was going to make what he was best at instead of wasting his time trying to perfect some fiddly rich-boy dish – if Lucifer wanted that nonsense, he could go to a fucking restaurant.

After that little errand, he decided to visit his tailor and check on the state of his commission. All he received for his troubles was a stern “I told you it would be done by next week. Come back then!” from the tailor and a supremely resentful look from the seamstress he had signed over to speed up the process. Ah, was she not happy with her lot? Well, tough luck. She should have been wiser about signing her soul away. At least she would be away from questionable degenerates, unlike in her previous employment, so really, Alastor was doing her a favor.

Mollified that he only had a week left to wait, he returned to the Hotel, only to be waylaid by Charlie, who was near ecstatic to announce that Cherri Bomb was finally officially joining their little redemption enterprise and to add that to that night’s radio broadcast, a chore which Alastor graciously accepted (it wasn’t as if he had any choice in the matter).

“Oh, and Alastor?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“I, ah… everyone’s already been paired off for the talent show…”

“Am I the odd man out?” Alastor asks, having neglected to pay attention to the number of newly arrived guests.

“I may have…told people you were one of the last few that still needed a partner – I recommended you! Told them you are a wonderful piano player but…” She looks at the ground, clearly sheepish about the situation.

“Let me guess – they all hastily paired up among themselves to avoid the dreaded fate of ending up partnered with the Radio Demon?”

Charlie looks up at him with a pitiful look. “I’m so sorry! If I were in their shoes, I would have loved to be able to partner with you!”

“Aw, there’s surely no need to be that despondent about it? Their poor judgment and clear lack of taste are hardly your fault.” She gives him a watery smile that’s somehow eerily reminiscent of one of Lucifer’s more heart-broken looks, and he shakes off the intrusive thought. “So, does that mean that I won’t have a partner at all?” Alastor inquires.

“Oh no, you will absolutely have a partner!” Charlie perks up.

How wonderful…who was he getting saddled with? “And who might that elusive individual be?” Alastor asks blithely.

“At least it’s someone you know!” Charlie says in chipper tones. Alastor makes a somewhat impatient gesture of ‘well, who is it?’ and she finally spills the relevant information. “It’s Husk!”

Alastor’s lips recede from his gums as his grin turns into the rictus variety. “How lovely.” He squeezes out between his teeth; tone less than thrilled at the prospect.

“I’m sorry…I already agreed to pair up with Angel cause I felt it would be unfair to ask you – I mean, you and I are co-founders of this Hotel…” Charlie keeps babbling on, a string of barely coherent apologies and banal rationalizations tumbling from her mouth in a never-ending stream of verbal soup. “I mean…I could reshuffle things a bit if you wanted me to?” She offers, looking at him with her big doe eyes.

“That will not be necessary.” Alastor reassures her with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “I am sure that Husker and I can figure out a cooperative arrangement…” Not like that sourpuss had any choice in the matter. Alastor would exert his authority should the thrall prove uncooperative.

“Oh, I’m so relieved!” Charlie exhales a massive gust of air. “Well, this means everyone is finally paired up! Don’t forget, we’re on in two weeks so there’s not much time left to rehearse – but I’m not worried about you!”  She beams up at him, expression one of utter faith in him and his abilities. She may be meddlesome, but she was also good at giving credit where credit was due (occasionally), so Alastor found himself temporarily mollified. “He’s at the bar, last I checked? You should probably figure out what you’re planning on doing together soon.”

“I’ll be sure to pay him a visit, then.” Alastor smiles benignly at her, amused by her shoulders sagging in relief at the erroneous belief that she’d just managed to mediate between him and Husker.

“Great! I have to go practice with Angel – good luck, Al!” She smiles at him, all sunshine and rainbows, and flounces away gaily.

Well, there’s nothing for it – he would just have to bite the bullet and coordinate with the surly old cat.

Alastor saunters into the bar area and looks for the bartender he’s installed there. The only reason he’d chosen Husk for the position was the fact that the man was a hopeless alcoholic and would be unlikely to stray far from his post, as well as the fact that Alastor owned his soul outright, and as such, had the highest amount of control over him. 

“Good afternoon, Husker!” Alastor exclaims jovially, staff held under his arm.

Husker responds with an extremely unenthusiastic: “Heya boss…”

“Why the long face?” Alastor says cruelly. “Am I such an unwelcome sight?”

The look on Husker’s whiskered face can best be described as wary. “I guess the princess gave you the good news too…” He mutters as he wipes down the counter, eyes darting around the deserted bar area.

Alastor presumes everyone is busily practicing their routines for the talent show. Well, that was one way to get all the demons to stop boozing it up…

“Yes, as luck would have it, we seem to be the final pair.”

Husker snorts. “Some luck…”

“Yes.” Alastor muses. “As lucky as a black cat, ha ha!”

Husker gives him a disgusted look. “I can’t tell whether you’re in a good mood or a foul one…cause either ends in you tormenting me.”

“Now, now…if dropping by for a friendly chat is torment, I wonder how you would classify your effeminate friend’s deal then?”

Husker’s eyes flash dangerously. “You leave Anthony out of this, bastard.”

The name catches Alastor slightly off-guard. Anthony? Who the hell was that? But then the puzzle comes together and he realizes they are probably talking about the same individual. His smirk turns nasty.

“Oh, are you on a first name basis already? How wonderful!” He laughs, the implication clear. Should Husk go blabbing about Alastor’s entanglement with Lucifer, Husker now had something new to lose. “Does he know you are a jinx, Husker?”

Husker’s eyes go wide as he stiffens behind the bar. “You wouldn’t…”

“I wouldn’t what?”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s merely a precaution.” Alastor murmurs, as smooth as butter. “Should you feel inclined to share things you have no business sharing.”

Husk growls low in his throat and his ears fall flat against his skull. “I would be stupid to cross you, and you know that.”

Alastor savors his discomfort and gives him a wide grin. “Why leave anything to chance?”

“Yeah. I get it. You’ve made your point, boss.”

“Splendid!” Alastor exclaims as he seats himself at the bar. “Why don’t you pour me some single malt and we can discuss this travesty of a talent show?”

Husker goes about it with the least amount of enthusiasm possible while Alastor leans on his elbow against the surface of the bar, inordinately amused by Husker’s suffering. Once the amber liquid is poured, Husk slides the glass Alastor’s way and corks the bottle, depositing it back in its place on the overcrowded shelf.

“What did you have in mind?” Husker asks, arms crossed in front of his bare, suspender-clad chest.

“I had nothing in mind, that’s why I’m here.” Alastor points out, tone acerbic in the extreme.

“You want me to come up with our act?” Husker asks in utter surprise. 

Alastor plays with the rim of his glass. “I am open to suggestions.”

“Uh…” Husker seems at a temporary loss for words.

“Well, what are you doing for your solo number?” Alastor asks, just to give them a place to start.

Husker shifts from foot to foot, almost as if embarrassed. “Er, I was thinking card tricks.”

“Ah, yes. You were quite good at that, as I recall?” Alastor purrs and swallows a mouthful of his liquor.

“Just drop it.” Husk grumbles, wings twitching.

“Fine…” Alastor sighs, conceding the point graciously. “Any other talents you’d wish to display?” He asks. Aside from gambling, that is.

“I suppose I could sing?” Husker offers.

Alastor perks up. “Ah! And were you thinking about a duet? Or piano accompaniment?”

Husk shudders slightly in front of him, his fur bristling visibly. “Piano accompaniment sounds good…”

“Wonderful! Any particular song you had in mind?” Alastor asks in a deceptively pleasant voice.

“Not yet…” Husker grumbles.

“Well, why don’t you give it a think a let me know in the next few days? I’m sure I will be by the bar eventually…” Alastor says and drains his glass.

“I will let you know.” Husk mutters in a subdued tone.

“Good man!” Alastor exclaims as he slips out of the chair and towers over the bar. “Do not tarry overlong? I am a busy demon.”

“Busy bamboozling a new victim…” Husker mutters.

Alastor starts laughing. Victim? Lucifer? What nonsense.

“Keep that tongue where it belongs, lest you lose it.”

“Roger that.” Husker says in a soft, defeated tone.

Later that day, at ten minutes to nine, he is once more in his trusty broadcasting tower, turning on his radio equipment and eyeing the brief.

On the dot, all of the radio receivers in the Hotel flare to life and he starts the broadcast with a jazzy jingle.

“Gooood evening, ladies and gentlemen (as well as unspecified), welcome to another evening with Alastor the Radio Demon, your faithful host! Ha ha, see what I did there? Hilarious! Anyhow, today we mark two weeks to our very exciting Hotel event – the Talent Show! As of today, all of our staff as well as residents have been paired up and rehearsals may proceed full steam ahead!”

Cue raucous cheering.

“Now, no spying on the other contestants – don’t be naughty, folks! Anyone caught in the act of sabotage will receive a stern lecture from our valiant Princess, and if that doesn’t work, you will have to answer to me – and I would like nothing better, I assure you…”

He broadcasts a few scandalized gasps.

“Settle down, settle down – it was just a little joke, ha ha! Now, onto the most pertinent news of the day – we have a new resident – please extend a warm welcome to our explosive-slinging gal – Cherri Bomb! Best of luck with your redemption, darling – and please – no blowing up the Hotel’s infrastructure? I was told our esteemed ruler has no fondness for my patch-up jobs…  Anyhow, as is our custom, new residents get a song of their choice to commemorate the occasion!”

Alastor plays the sounds of a cheering, whistling crowd.

“So, without further ado – here is Cherry Lips by…Garbage! Hm!” Alastor blinks and cuts the mic before playing the requested music. Figures the rambunctious girl would go for something of the sort…

Alastor gets up to stretch his limbs and walks around the tower as he reads through the music requests portion of the brief, which is usually a bunch of scraps of paper stapled together. He ignores the first one as it’s entirely illegible, and flips to the next one which reads: “I Like Big Butts by Sir Mix-a-Lot” Alastor’s lip curls in disgust as he discards that suggestion as well. Why were people trying so hard to waste his time with nonsensical (and often needlessly sexual) musical requests? This one was especially egregious as he suspected it was invented altogether! The next suggestion isn’t much better – it reads – “ME SO HORNY!! It’s a banger, pls play!” Alastor narrows his eyes. This fellow would have to remain disappointed and he only had himself to blame – not only did they forget the name of the artist, but also broke Alastor’s cardinal rule – wrote down music that clearly didn’t deserve to air. At this point he was beginning to suspect that Angel wrote down all of these just to mess with him.

Or rather Anthony, if Husker was to be believed.

Alastor flips hastily through the rest of the requests, hoping for something reasonable he could air. On the second to last scrap of paper, he finds “Chopin – Nocturne Op. 27 No. 2 (D major)” written in black ink. He squints for a second and then realizes he is looking at Lucifer’s handwriting.

Since when was Lucifer listening in to these?

Alastor supposes that ‘all radios in the Hotel’ includes Lucifer’s Atwater Kent as well… He looks through his window and his gaze lingers on Lucifer’s rooms in the distance. Is he back there right now, listening to the broadcast?

Something about that thought is almost intimate. Each of them in their respective towers, all alone.

Alastor goes back to his chair as the previous song selection winds down and takes a hold of his microphone, eyelids flickering as he finds the Nocturne in a never-ending sea of overlapping signals and holds it with bated breath.

“And now for something sweeter as you wind down for the night, dear listeners – Chopin’s Nocturne in D major. Pleasant dreams!” Alastor says in smooth tones and lets the first soothing notes of the piano melody hover in the air before turning his microphone off and exhaling softly. He closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, drifting off into the expressive melody.

Perhaps he should learn to play one of Chopin’s Nocturnes for Lucifer? It wasn’t exactly the music he trained with, but with sheet music and enough time…

His fingers twitch, imagining piano keys as the melancholy melody tinkles in his ears.

Somewhere, on the other side of the Hotel, he can envision Lucifer sitting in his reading nook, back leaning against the glass, humming along with a smile.

His soft hum goes unheard.

Chapter Text

Alastor performs a final inspection of the table he’s set in the Bayou – the crisp white tablecloth, the crystal glasses, the sturdy cast iron pot firmly covered with a lid in the middle of the table that is bound to keep its contents warm for a while longer, two table settings… He double checks the two garden chairs, now with the addition of seat cushions, and exhales. Then he inspects himself by conjuring a massive mirror held up by his shadow. Alastor turns around, assessing the fit of his jazz suit in pinstripe black, and the cut of his crimson vest. Then he eyes the neatly-pressed single pleat of his trousers and nods to himself. Bless Niffty and her housewifely monomania. He checks his tie and the golden collar pin holding the knot up (and collar tips down) and deems everything to be in order. A matching crimson pocket square peeks out of his jacket pocket. He catches his eye in the mirror and smothers the last sliver of apprehension he spies there.

He is ready.

The mirror disappears along with his shadow and Alastor strolls towards his bed, where he picks up the dress box containing two weeks’ worth of his tailor’s labor (and a lifetime of resentment by the seamstress). He holds it under his arm, horizontal, so it doesn’t bunch up and crease prematurely. Alastor exits his room and heads down the interminably long corridor between his and Lucifer’s living quarters. Today’s broadcast has been pre-recorded and played out with minimal input from him, so here he is, at 9:30 in the evening, standing in front of Lucifer’s door, trying to steady his nerves. He should have downed some whiskey, but there is nothing for it now. His gloved fingers rap against the door. Lucifer knows to expect him, as Alastor had sent him a message several days ago to keep this evening free. Alastor’s undead heart thuds in his ribcage.

The door swings open, revealing Lucifer clad in his usual outfit, sans tailcoat and hat. “Oh!” Lucifer exclaims, visibly taken aback as he takes in Alastor’s attire with an appreciative glint in his eye. “You’re looking very dapper this evening…”

“May I come in?” Alastor inquires, the back of his neck itching with the desire to get out of the public corridor, no matter how deserted it may be.

“Ah, sure.” Lucifer moves out of the way, his hand sweeping inwards in a welcoming manner. 

Alastor strolls in, projecting an ease he doesn’t truly feel and heads towards Lucifer’s seating area, coming to a halt in front of the table. In the middle, serving as a curious centerpiece is a small, slightly uneven bowl in dappled blue. The lightly cracked glaze is interspersed with fine golden lines whose arrangement seems almost haphazard, but the visual effect is quite striking.

“A new decoration?” Alastor asks as he deposits the box gently on the table, careful not to jostle either the contents or the bowl.

Lucifer chuckles. “I wouldn’t call it new, per se…but yes. It required some digging around the palace to find.”

“Looks…unique.” Alastor manages to say. “Does it have sentimental value?”

“Not as such…” Lucifer’s expression softens. “I suppose it’s more about what it represents?”

“And that would be…what, exactly?”

Lucifer gives him an inscrutable look. “It’s kintsugi.”

“You say that as if I should be aware of what that’s supposed to be.”

Lucifer laughs. “It’s a Japanese art of repairing broken pottery; the name translates to ‘golden joinery’. Hence, you know. The gold.”

Alastor looks at the bowl once more, taking in what he now knows to be repairs. It’s rather beautiful.

“The gold is just on the surface, the thing actually holding the shards together is the lacquer produced from the sap of the urushi tree. It’s a toxic substance, but it figures humans would find a unique use for it.” Lucifer explains, clearly amused and impressed by humanity’s ingenuity. “Fixing something like this is usually a lengthy process.”

“How lengthy?” Alastor asks.

“Oh…depending on whether there are pieces missing that need reconstructing and how many broken shards there are… a month or two?”

“That seems like a lot of trouble for a bowl.” Alastor notes, despite the end result being quite pleasant.

“Why bother, right?” Lucifer laughs, but there’s something darker in his expression Alastor fails to parse in its entirety. Lucifer grasps his right upper arm with his left hand, the golden band glistening upon his ring finger.

Alastor wonders whether Lucifer himself is held together with nothing but that thin strip of gold, plastered over his cracks.

“It was actually something you said.” Lucifer murmurs. Alastor makes an inquisitive noise but remains quiet otherwise, as Lucifer seems to be in a strange mood this evening. It was always dangerous when he turned contemplative. “You told me I could be as broken as I liked, as long as I kept on–”

“– fighting.” Alastor finishes the sentence. “I recall.”

Lucifer plasters on a false smile and shrugs. It hits Alastor then, like a landslide, that this is a symbol of Lucifer’s struggle – a perfect representation of the battle he’s waging with his own sense of hopelessness – and that it was Alastor himself who gave him the will to carry on.

Whose gold was more powerful – his? Or Lilith’s?

“So…what’s in the box?” Lucifer asks, curiosity winning over the gloom.

“A surprise,” Alastor says with a teasing slant to his lips.

“For me?”

Alastor rolls his eyes. “No, I brought this all the way here to surprise myself.”

Lucifer huffs, grin turning more genuine. “No need to be sarcastic so early in the evening.”

Alastor takes a step back and motions towards the box. “Go on. Open it.”

“I wonder whether this gift has anything to do with that new outfit you’re sporting?” Lucifer asks wryly as he reaches for the box.

“You’re not wondering at all.” Alastor shakes his head. Lucifer looks at him with wide eyes. “I know the pact doesn’t activate for rhetorical questions.” Alastor expounds, noting how Lucifer’s hands froze in midair. “Otherwise the compulsion would have kicked in three questions ago.”

“Hah.” Lucifer shakes off whatever it was that gave him pause. “Deals are devilishly tricky things.”

“You would know.” Alastor grins widely at him.

“You would think, wouldn’t you…” Lucifer mutters and finally takes the lid off the box, peering at the contents, which are obscured by crinkly thin black paper. He places the lid to the side and unwraps the delicate contents of the box. Lucifer’s brows scrunch up in confusion.

“Is it not to your liking?” Alastor asks carefully.

Lucifer takes the dress into his hands and holds it up, lifting it out of the box in a cascade of vivid red fabric, the slender golden chain tinkling as the garment unfurls. Lucifer’s lips part slightly as surprise overtakes his features. “A dress…”

Alastor remains mute, barely breathing as Lucifer inspects the sleek material, running his hands over it. The expression on his face is too complicated for Alastor to decipher. When Lucifer finally looks up at him, he asks: “Did you get this specifically for me?”

The compulsion triggers at last, tingles prickling the back of Alastor’s neck.

“Yes.” He answers. “Custom-designed by yours truly.”

“Must have been expensive…” Lucifer murmurs, his thumbs caressing the material.

“A mere trifle,” Alastor says magnanimously. “No need to give it another thought.”

Lucifer smiles coyly and looks up at him. “I suppose you would like me to put it on?”

“Yes, that was the intention.” Alastor inclines his head slightly. “We have dinner plans, after all.”

Lucifer’s smile broadens, even though his eyes betray surprise. “Are you…taking me out for a date?”

“If by out you mean sitting beyond the porch off my rooms, then yes.”

Lucifer laughs, the sound of it melodious and curiously soothing. “I suppose I should go change…”

“I suppose you should.” Alastor drawls. “Oh, and I will leave the style of footwear up to you.”

“Ooh!” Lucifer teases. “Exciting!”

“Go on before the food gets cold.”

Lucifer giggles and all but skips to the bathroom, gracing Alastor with a final: “I won’t be long!”

The bathroom door closes with a click and Alastor lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding in.  To give his hands something to do, he pops the lid back onto the box and deposits it on the small bench hugging the perimeter of the reading nook.

The mended bowl on the table catches his eye once again. He picks it up to inspect it from up close, tracing the golden veins crisscrossing the dark blue glaze. The memory of Lucifer reforming the window in his music room comes to mind, the molten metal spreading like veins in a human body to form something beautiful. Alastor finds it funny how anything shattered in Hell; Lucifer could mend with a snap of his fingers.

Well, anything except himself, and the sinners he was stuck with.

Carefully, Alastor places the bowl back on the table.

He then looks around the room and notes all the ways in which it has changed from the first time he stepped into it – the addition of the record cabinet, the veritable mounds of paperwork on Lucifer’s desk, the red damask couch.

The bowl.

The half-full bookshelf.

The grandfather clock steadfastly ticking away the time.

Lucifer’s time, which had been stagnant for so long...was it finally ticking again? Had he finally begun to change after his long rut? Something in Alastor unfurls and tingles erupt all down his skin, turning it to gooseflesh.

The bathroom door opens with the subtlest creak and Alastor looks up as Lucifer emerges, hips swaying, the twin slits in red fabric revealing the pristine white thighs beneath. The dress is floor length, and peeking behind it is a pair of sleek, dizzily high black heels. He sucks in a breath as his eyes roam higher, taking in the beautiful opera gloves of Lucifer’s bare arms. The slender golden cylinders adorning the straps tied behind his neck glint softly, guiding the eye to the artfully draped fabric that hangs low in a deep v over Lucifer’s chest. The drapes give the subtle illusion of breasts, which Alastor knows Lucifer doesn’t possess.

“What do you think?” Lucifer asks and Alastor’s eyes snap up to his face, which looks…different somehow. It is framed with Lucifer’s hair, now visibly longer than usual, falling around it in a gentle wave. If Alastor were forced to describe the hairstyle, he would go for ‘artfully disheveled’. There’s a slight golden shimmer to Lucifer’s eyelids and a light rosy sheen to his lips, but other than that, he remains unadorned.

Alastor’s words fail him.

Lucifer’s lips stretch into a devilish grin as he twirls around in the dress, showing off his bared back, so smooth and inviting, especially with the slender golden chain following the contour of his spine. Lucifer strikes a coquettish pose and lifts his leg backwards to show off his heels. Alastor notices the underside of the lightly pointed shoe is blood red, and there are delicate golden wings perched atop the heel, flaring out slightly.

Altogether, Lucifer looks…

“Astonishing.”

Lucifer lets out a brief, but delighted giggle. “We match!”

“That was rather the point.” Alastor notes, resisting the urge to say something scathing. Still, he cannot take his eyes off of Lucifer, whose slender build seems made for this dress. Or rather, the dress was tailor-made for it specifically… Truly, Lucifer was unfairly beautiful.

“What have you prepared for me this evening?” Lucifer asks with an almost passable demure smile.

“Well, dinner in my quarters, and then, hopefully, dancing in yours.”

“Vertical dancing?” Lucifer grins.

Alastor blinks. “What other kind is there?”

Lucifer titters, black fingers obscuring his lips.

“Was that innuendo again?” Alastor asks, unimpressed.

“Of course it was, silly!”

“You’re acting strangely…” Alastor observes.

“It’s my first proper date in forever – cut me some slack!” Lucifer says with a huff and waves his hand to open a portal to Alastor’s rooms. “Shall we?”

Alastor strides up to Lucifer and offers his hand, which Lucifer happily takes and they walk through the portal together, the magic fizzling out behind them.

The radio in Alastor’s room crackles to life, spilling a delicate piano melody. He fervently hopes Lucifer isn’t familiar with it so they can have something to talk about. With a debonair smile, he escorts Lucifer to the table in the Bayou and pulls out a chair for him.

“So polite.” Lucifer purrs as he gracefully sinks into his seat.

“Maman raised me well.” Alastor states as he walks around the table to his own seat.

“Aside the whole cannibal thing, you mean?” Lucifer needles him as he takes hold of his cloth napkin and primly drapes it over his knees.

“The cannibal thing, as you so succinctly put it, is a more recent development.”

“Aw, a newly acquired sin?” Lucifer teases, clearly in a much better mood than when Alastor found him in earlier.

“Acquired in Hell, if that’s what you’re referring to, yes.” Alastor concedes. And so are you, he thinks to himself. 

“This food isn’t…demons, is it?” Lucifer asks, suddenly wary.

Alastor chuckles. He wants to play with Lucifer for a spell and tease the prospect, but decides not to. “No demon meat, I promise.” Alastor swears and wonders why Lucifer’s previous question didn’t trigger the compulsion either. Perhaps it had been said half in jest? “It’s only chicken and a bit of ham.”

Lucifer heaves a sigh of relief. “You almost had me worried there.”

Alastor removes the lid and the thinnest whisper of steam escapes the fragrant dish. “May I present tonight’s dinner – okra gumbo!”

“Oh, is this…did you cook?” Lucifer asks, clearly interested.

Alastor really hopes Lucifer won’t turn up his nose at it, or he would get seriously offended. “Of course!” He then grabs a serving spoon and scoops up a generous amount of gumbo, which he heaps onto Lucifer’s plate. “Tell me when to stop.” He warns as he adds a bit more.

“This should be enough for now, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” Alastor smiles, relieved that Lucifer doesn’t seem displeased, at least yet. He then plates some for himself and pops the lid back onto the pot, sliding it to the side of the table so it doesn’t interrupt the view. Finally, he unbuttons his suit and takes a seat, draping the napkin over his lap, much as Lucifer has.

“That’s a familiar bottle of water…” Lucifer remarks with a smile.

“I would be a poor host if I served you anything less than the best.”

“I refilled it three days ago…” Lucifer notices.

Alastor picks up the bottle of water and uncorks it. “You have.”

“It should be less full…”

“Truly?” Alastor plays dumb as he pours water into Lucifer’s crystal glass.

“Yes, since you made coffee yesterday…” Lucifer frowns in an attempt to calculate the suspiciously high water level remaining.

“So?” Alastor teases as he pours himself water as well; stoppering the bottle once he’s done.

“That would mean that you only made coffee for me… except I clearly remember you drinking some as well.”

“A mystery!” Alastor grins, playing up the intrigue as he picks up his fork.

“Unless…” Lucifer trails off as he reaches for his own fork.

“Unless what?”

Lucifer looks up at him and his expression softens. “Unless…you made your portion with Hell-water.”

Alastor chuckles. It would seem he got caught. Ah well.

“Eat your gumbo, majesty. Don’t let my mother’s expertise go to waste.”

“Perish the thought!” Lucifer exclaims theatrically and takes a deep breath. “It smells wonderful.”

Alastor takes a bite and observes the way Lucifer eagerly eats a forkful, his face melting into an expression of utter bliss. “Mmmmmh” is the only thing he manages to say before enthusiastically tucking right in.

“I hope it’s not too spicy for you?” Alastor says in amusement. “Charlie wept when she first tasted my jambalaya!”

Much to his surprise, Lucifer laughs. “I do have several millennia on her when it comes to tasting food… She’ll come into her own eventually. And no, it’s not too spicy, it’s just right.”

“Good!” Alastor exclaims as he resumes his meal. It is nearly as good as maman’s. Nearly.

Lucifer polishes off half of his plate before realizing they have both lapsed into utter silence. He gives Alastor a sheepish, apologetic look and slows down.

“This music…I’ve never heard it before.”

“It’s recent.” Alastor says smoothly, pleased that Lucifer remarked upon it.

“I like it.” Lucifer remarks as he takes a smaller bite.

“The music or the food?” Alastor jokes as violins weep gently over the piano, only somewhat muted by the sounds of the swamp – crickets chief among them.

“Are you fishing for compliments, Alastor?” Lucifer looks at him with a teasing glint in his eye.

“Would you hold it against me?” Alastor asks with faux innocence.

Lucifer shakes his head, but is visibly amused. Alastor observes him – the ease in his posture, the soft slope of his shoulders, the fine strands of golden hair hanging artfully over Lucifer’s left eye. The Bayou is beautiful, stuck like this in a state of perpetual gloomy twilight, fireflies drifting all around them like twinkling stars, but brighter than any of them is the man sitting at his table, happily eating Alastor’s gumbo without a care in the world.

Alastor could have poisoned it. Tampered with it a million different ways, not that they were likely to hurt Lucifer, but instead, here they were – enjoying what everyone else would probably describe as a romantic dinner.

Perhaps he should have lit some candles… ah well. It was too late now.

“It’s been so long since I’ve had a home-cooked meal. I mean, one I didn’t make myself.”

Alastor is tempted to make a joke regarding Charlie and her oftentimes unorthodox flavor and ingredient combinations, but Lucifer’s expression gives him pause.

“I…” Lucifer trails off, eyes misting over. “It’s lovely. The gesture, I mean.” His eyes meet Alastor’s and linger, conveying nothing but gratitude. “And yes. It tastes wonderful. I really enjoy the depth of texture and flavor that the okra gives it.”

“Maman would be happy to hear the praise.”

Lucifer snorts. “Even if it comes from a fallen angel?”

“If she’d met you, she would have probably liked you. She had a thing for wounded men.” Alastor clears his throat, realizing that Lucifer did not enjoy the remark. “Anyhow, I am still waiting on the compliment regarding the music…” He attempts to distract Lucifer away from maudlin topics.

It seems to work, as Lucifer’s wistful smile broadens once more. “I presumed this was way too mellow for your tastes.”

“It is.” Alastor admits, reaching for his glass of water. “But it’s not as if I chose it with myself in mind.”

Lucifer lowers his fork until it tinkles against his plate. “You chose it for me?”

Alastor gasps as the compulsion kicks in for the second time that evening, forcing him to answer. “It reminded me of Satie – a more modern version of his music, I suppose. I thought you might enjoy it.” He says, hoping that was enough, but the tingles in the back of his neck are relentless. The words tumble out of his mouth: “I hoped you would.” He exhales in relief as the compulsion finally relinquishes its grasp on him.

“I see…” Lucifer says simply, leaning back into his chair.

“The album is titled ‘Living Room Songs’.”

“Ambient music…”

“Just so.” Alastor sets his glass down and resumes his meal. Why is he getting the feeling that Lucifer’s mood was worsening again? He should have just stuck to jazz…

“You really put a lot of thought into this,” Lucifer says softly, sounding almost…touched? “I appreciate it.”

“I wanted to celebrate.” Alastor murmurs slyly, taking another bite and chewing slowly to buy himself more time and goad Lucifer into asking. He doesn’t have to wait long.

“Celebrate what?” Lucifer asks.

“Catching Adam, of course!”

Lucifer starts laughing gracelessly, a piece of chicken dropping into his lap. “Fuck!”

Alastor snorts at Lucifer’s clumsiness.

“We didn’t catch him, Carmilla did.” Lucifer mutters distractedly as he lifts the napkin and eats the piece of chicken off of it like a godless heathen. For some reason, Alastor finds it hilarious and starts laughing uproariously, nearly catapulting his own fork off the table in the process. Lucifer catches his eye and only then realizes what he’s done and they both dissolve into helpless laughter. Each time when the other has managed to calm down a fraction, they catch each other’s gaze and start sputtering with laughter again.

“Fffuck you–” Lucifer wheezes, “–you’re lucky I didn’t choke.”

“I take no responsibility – as all the chicken has been de-boned.”

“Could I have some more?” Lucifer inquires with a hopeful sparkle in his eye.

“No.” Alastor denies his request, as serious as a cardinal sin.

“No?” Lucifer asks, visibly scandalized.

“I said what I said.”

“And why not, may I ask?” Lucifer asks. “And if you say it’s because I need to watch my figure, I will kick you in the shin under the table.”

Alastor lets out a mad cackle. “I wanted to say I was saving it for the shadow gators, but this is funnier!”

Lucifer grimaces, lips downturned as Alastor feels a sharp point smacking into his shin under the table.

“Ow!” He cries out. “What was that for?”

Lucifer pouts, looking away. “For making fun of me.”

His leg smarts, but he chuckles anyway, removing the lid on the pot to give Lucifer another portion.

“There you go, my dear.” Alastor says smoothly, hoping the peace offering would smooth some of Lucifer’s ruffled feathers. Truly, like this, with his arms crossed, he looks just like a huffy belle irritated with her dance partner.

Lucifer cracks an eye open, ostensibly to gauge Alastor contriteness and gives him a calculating look. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’re holding the information about the music hostage…”

Alastor huffs in amusement, serving himself in turn. “The composer’s name is Ólafur Arnalds.”

“Interesting!” Lucifer’s displeased countenance melts at once. “That sounds…Scandinavian?”

“He’s from Iceland, of all places.” Alastor remarks, taking a small bite and carefully observing Lucifer to gauge his mood.

“Like Björk!”

Alastor looks at him blankly. “Huh?”

“Never mind,” Lucifer says lightly. “I’m not sure you would like her music, it’s quite peculiar.”

If Lucifer claimed something was peculiar, then surely it was a disaster of epic proportions.

“I’ll defer to your judgment.”

Lucifer bestows a wry smile upon him and goes back to his meal.

They lapse into companionable silence and Alastor allows himself to relax. The night is only just beginning and Lucifer seems more mellow now, a slight smile never far from his lips. Bold violins play in the background, accompanied with the sound of bullfrogs croaking and crickets chirping. Something in Alastor eases. He is safe here, in his domain, and Lucifer is a dangerous yet welcome guest.

“I think…” Alastor ventures and Lucifer looks up at him, completely guileless as the fork slides out of his mouth, prongs held between his lips.

“Hm?” Lucifer makes an inquisitive noise as he pulls the fork out, chewing.

He’s given it a lot of thought over these past two weeks, as to whether or not Lucifer should be trusted. While Alastor is still wary, and would likely always remain so, he is simply running out of reasons to mistrust Lucifer. And he has a curious feeling that Lucifer would appreciate the gesture significantly more than it costs Alastor to say the words.

“I think I would like to give it a try.” He speaks quietly, words lapsing into the tender music lingering around them.

Lucifer stands up straighter, shoulders dropping a fraction. “Try what?”

The compulsion doesn’t kick in and Alastor swallows, something uneasy swirling in his gut.

“Being…” Alastor breathes in, steeling his nerves. “…friends.”

Lucifer blinks, confused for a moment, clearly at a loss for words.

“Unless the offer is no longer on the table.” There’s a wrenching feeling somewhere in his ribcage as he waits for a coherent response.

Lucifer exhales in one great rush and his smile positively blooms before Alastor’s eyes, his gaze bright and expression animated. “Of course it is – I would love that!”

Alastor sucks in a breath, feeling all sorts of complicated, and completely bowled over by the near crushing force of relief he’s experiencing. His throat constricts and all he can manage is a tight smile and a nod. He stares at Lucifer’s left hand extending over the table in search of his own, the dark gradient of his skin contrasting the pristine white of the tablecloth. Despite Alastor’s best efforts, his fingers twitch as he puts his fork down gracelessly, the metal clinking almost unbearably loudly against the white porcelain, drowning out both the music and the silence. Gaze still affixed to the table, his hand lands clumsily over Lucifer’s, gloves scraping against the tablecloth to clasp Lucifer’s cool hand. The leather creaks as the golden band is momentarily obscured from sight, Alastor’s thumb covering it.

He tears his eyes away and looks up – regretting it almost instantly, because Lucifer’s gaze seems entirely too knowing for Alastor’s taste. There’s something warm and vulnerable in that expression, a gentleness that strikes fear into his frantically beating heart. There’s a kind of undoing there, veiled behind Lucifer’s compassionate smile, so deceptive and mild.

Alastor doesn’t want to trust it, the smile or the person behind it, but he feels compelled to vomit the truth out, even without a question being posed.

“You could destroy me.”

Lucifer’s eyes betray hurt, and his voice is a mere flutter. “Why would I want that?”

“There are many out there who would find putting me in my place entertaining.” Alastor says flatly.

Lucifer shakes his head emphatically. “I’m not one of them.” The grip on Alastor’s hand tightens.

Yes you are, Alastor thinks. You’ve done it before.

“Lucky me.”

“I would never harm you for entertainment.”

You did it to Adam.

‘We did it to Adam.’ His insides whisper with a self-satisfied purr.

“Do you truly think me capable of such a thing?” Lucifer’s hurt bleeds into his tone.

“Everyone is capable.” Alastor shrugs.

“Yes, but not everyone is willing!” Lucifer says sharply.

“Willingness is subject to circumstance.” Alastor points out, even as his hand clings to Lucifer’s.

“You’re…” Lucifer halts, expression wounded. “You’re afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid of you.” Alastor mutters, because it’s true. He’s wary and mistrustful, but being afraid would require a flight response, and he doesn’t seem to possess that when it comes to Lucifer.

 “Well, you’re afraid of something.” Lucifer huffs incredulously.

Alastor eases his grip on Lucifer’s hand, the leather of his glove brushing against the cold wedding band.

“We should go back to our meal.” He clears his throat and relinquishes his hold on Lucifer’s hand.

“Please tell me,” Lucifer implores, keeping his tone carefully gentle. “We should be able to talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Alastor insists, taking a sip of water.

That accursed water, as pure as the freshly fallen snow.

“Alastor…” Lucifer says softly, and Alastor feels his annoyance growing.

Why is Lucifer insisting – why couldn’t he just drop it?

Why does he have to poke at things that are best left alone?

“Why do you even care?” Alastor asks, dropping the glass back onto the table with a loud thunk.

“You said…we’re friends…” Lucifer trails off, voice impossibly soft. “Friends care.”

Until they don’t, Alastor thinks.

“You don’t trust me.” Lucifer concludes, withdrawing his hand completely until it falls by his side, completely obscured by the table.

I don’t want to, echoes in Alastor’s mind. I wish I didn’t.

“Trust isn’t necessary for this venture,” Alastor says instead, taking a rather abrupt bite of his gumbo and attempting to steady himself.

“I’m afraid it is.” Lucifer murmurs softly and picks up his napkin to dab at the corner of his mouth before placing it on the table and getting to his feet.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to my room.”

Alastor abandons his meal and gets to his feet at once.

“Alone.” Lucifer clarifies, voice soft and regretful.

“Why?” Alastor asks as he stands there gormlessly, brain stuttering to a halt.

“I won’t stay somewhere where I’m not welcome.”

“But…you are literally my guest.” Alastor answers, uncomprehending.