Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It isn’t the first time Lucifer has lost track of her.

It is, however, the first time that she has unequivocally disregarded his summons.

Lucifer doesn’t have to tap into his unending well of omniscience to know where she’s gone, but he still searches his room for her all the same in hope that he's wrong. He won't officially concede defeat until he's checked under every nook and cranny and rubber duck pile.

When Lucifer lived by himself, he'd allowed Eden — yeah, he named his snake Eden, don't let it be said he doesn't appreciate a healthy dose of irony — free reign of the palace, placated by the knowledge that her range of chaos was limited. 

The same could not be said for a hotel full of sinners. 

He'd tried to keep her preoccupied with new toys and treats, encouraging her to stay confined to his person or his room, but she'd been particularly rebellious as of late.  

If that weren’t bad enough, she’d evidently set her sights on The Radio Demon of all sinners.

Lucifer thinks the decades of isolation did quite a number on her. That’s the only way he can explain her incomprehensible affinity towards Alastor given that Lucifer himself doesn’t want to be within a hundred feet of him.

If it were anyone else, perhaps he’d be compelled to figure out why this extension of himself was so insistent on remaining close to the radio host.

But for goodness' sake, it's Alastor.

For all Lucifer knows, Alastor is carrying around the snake equivalent of catnip in his pocket just to piss him off, and that’s all there is to it.

Whatever the reason, Eden has made it clear that she has her own agenda, and she is nothing if not a persistent little lady.

Theoretically, Lucifer could solve the issue entirely by placing her in a permanent slumber for the remainder of his stay at the hotel. However, he still doesn't have a frame of reference for how long his presence is necessary (or welcomed, for that matter), and it doesn't sit right with him to take her out of commission indefinitely.

Grasping for an alternative, he'd stationed wards around his suite. They'd proven a rather effective deterrent thus far, thwarting several of her attempts to wander the halls unchaperoned.

That is, up until last night.

It'd been his fault, really. He’d let himself get distracted by a new design — a really cool one, in his defense!

Consumed by his mania, he’d forgotten to tuck her into stasis and power on the wards before he’d passed out.

He'd woken up this morning, head propped up by the makeshift pillow of his folded arms, a sticky note stuck to his cheek, and a line of drool smudging the sketch beneath him.

A quick shower and change of clothes later, he'd rounded out his morning routine with a pair of fingerguns aimed at his reflection and an obligatory, "Why are you like this?”

It wasn’t until he’d gotten to the door and reached for his top hat that he noticed —

his crown,

his apple (because he was committed to the theme, damnit),

and the conspicuous absence of his snake.

The groan that'd followed was one dredged up from the depths of his soul.

Some thirty minutes later, with his futile room search finally complete, all that Lucifer is left with is the dreaded anticipation of what he presumes will be an extremely unpleasant interaction.

Fuckity fuck fuck.

If only he could opt for the sweet release of death over having to endure another day in the presence of The Radio Demon.

The unbearable smugness, the targeted taunts about his height, lack of parenting accolades, and laughable conversational skills, ugh.

Lucifer is getting so very close to throwing hands these days.

He'd held back thus far, entirely for Charlie’s sake, but oh, how satisfying would it be to punch Alastor right in his stupid, smiling mouth. Like powdered sugar on his lips after a juice cleanse, he imagines.

Perhaps, co-existing with Alastor was simply another punishment in his long line of sanctions for the whole free-will fiasco.

It would certainly explain why Alastor's existence seemed to exclusively revolve around being insufferable — toward Lucifer, specifically. 

Resigned, he sets his hat on his head and summons a portal into the parlor. He's resolved to play it cool, aware of how Alastor feeds off his more explosive reactions.

He knows this and, yet, when he finds a snoozing Eden curled around Alastor’s antlers, the long line of her body acting like a hammock between them, the first words that leave his mouth are, “You motherfucker.”

His ‘Oh Deer!’ mug in hand, Alastor looks to him with his signature smile. A perfectly wrapped box sits on the coffee table beside him, its extravagant red bow drawing Lucifer’s attention to it —

But wait, he’ll get to that later. He needs to deal with this daughter-stealing, snake-absconding, pretentious asshole first. 

“Oh, your Majesty, a pleasure to see you as always,” Alastor greets him with superficial cheer, a jovial buzz in the air. “Lovely morning, is it not? Why, I heard we might even get some acid rain today!”

“Save it,” Lucifer snaps. “You have something that belongs to me.”

“Is that so?”

Lucifer’s eyes flicker up pointedly. Eden's awake now, vertical pupils watching him, but she remains perched in the little nest of Alastor’s hair.

“Oh!” Alastor gestures upwards with a flourish. “You are referring to mon serpent?”

Oh, fuck this guy. “That's not her — “

“I assure you, she is here of her own free will. In fact, here I was, enjoying a spot of tea after another successful broadcast. It was longer than usual, at the behest of our dear Charlotte — “

“Not our. Charlie is my daughter — “

“She wanted a special segment, you see, informing the denizens of Hell about the new amenities,” Alastor continues, undeterred, “and I was gracious enough to oblige by her asinine request! I spoke at length about our soundproofed quiet room, perfect for screaming into the void. I also discussed our newly reinforced balconies. They are much sturdier now and function quite well as a jumping pad.”

“I find it really hard to believe that Charlie asked you to phrase it like that.”

“I had to take some creative liberties to really draw them in,” Alastor says with a dismissive wave. “Ah, but I digress. As I settled in for a morning filled with the pleasant smell of sulfur and carnage, a little hiss caught my attention. Mon serpent was positively delighted when I asked her to join me.” Then, he adds, a figurative twist of the knife, “And as you can see, she is quite happy where she is.”

“Listen, you tacky piece of shit,” Lucifer retorts, closing the distance between them until he is looming properly, “I know you think you're so fucking clever, but I see right through you. So, cut the shit and give me back my goddamn snake.”

Alastor raises an elegant brow in perpetual amusement. “Does it look like I'm stopping her?”

Lucifer’s eye twitches.

He turns his attention to his reptile.

“Eden,” he says sternly in his best Dad voice. It could arguably use some work. “It's time to go.”

Eden acknowledges him with a lazy flick of her tongue.

“I’m serious.”

He tugs at his connection with her, but she's fighting it, embarrassing him like an unruly toddler who has decided a public setting is the best place to question his authority.

And Alastor, he's practically glowing, relishing in the blatant dismissal from his most beloved pet.

It's made all the worse when Alastor leans forward and whispers encouragingly, “You’re doing a great job, your Majesty. Uncontested for parent of the year, if I do say so myself.”

“You, shut the fuck up. And you — “ he points to Eden then to his hat, “get back here!”

Eden doesn’t appreciate his tone, that much is clear, but she does unfurl herself from Alastor’s antlers to slink down the side of his head. Hovering over his shoulder, she whines at Lucifer in the form of a displeased hiss.

Just as he's about to compel her to listen (which he hates to do, he really loathes forcing anyone to do anything, it's kind of his thing), Alastor tsks his tongue at her. “There, there, mon serpent. Best listen to his Majesty before he throws a proper fit,” he soothes her. “But never fear. We will have tea again another time. I will summon you a fine mouse during your next visit; how does that sound?”

Ever so pleased, Eden flicks her tongue over Alastor's jaw, leaving Lucifer to wrangle with the heat flooding his face.

It's peculiar — Alastor is usually so fickle about physical contact, but he doesn’t seem to mind Eden's touch. He offers her a gentle pat on the head in return for her affectionate display.

Satisfied, she abandons her post, curling around the frame of the chair and easing herself down onto the floor. Lucifer isn’t sure how she’s able to relay such extensive pouting in her slither, but she does so with flair. 

He crouches down to meet her halfway, extending his hat toward her. She dutifully winds herself along its base, settling into her rightful place.

“Such a darling,” Alastor croons with a fondness Lucifer is nearly certain he’s incapable of. “Hard to fathom she is connected to you at all.”

Alastor has no idea what the connection between them actually entails, and that’s fine with Lucifer. Knowing the full scope of Eden’s relation to him would set a dangerous precedent where Alastor’s ego is concerned.

“Yeah, well, fuck you, too,” Lucifer says, setting his hat back on his head. He summons his cane and points to the wrapped box on the table with it. “What the hell is this, anyway? A bomb?”

“Ha! No, nothing quite as… explosive,” Alastor says. He taps the edge of the box with a claw. “This is your gift.”

“Uh.” Lucifer falters. “My wha — why?”

“For your daughter’s bonding activity this afternoon.” Alastor’s grin is so sharp, it could slice muscle clean from bone. “Don’t you remember?”

Lucifer categorically does not remember a bonding activity slated for this afternoon, especially not one that entails Alastor giving him a gift. He’d think he’d recall something that monumental.

Then again, he does have a tendency to drift off during conversation. He is often left floundering as a result, trying to glean bits of information from context so that he doesn’t have to admit to his deficiencies out loud.

“Of course I do!” Lucifer says defensively. “I just — I’ve been so busy with... important things. It just slipped my mind for a moment.” Then, after a few painful seconds, he asks, “So… is everyone exchanging gifts or…?”

Even seated, Alastor somehow manages to look down at him through half-lidded eyes, his smile never faltering. His desire to watch Lucifer squirm is quite transparent.  

“Right.” Lucifer will have to make deductions on his own, maybe chat up the barkeep later. For now, he'll assume that an exchange involving gifts is a double-sided activity. “Well. I hope you’re ready for your gift because I’m going to blow it out of the water,” he asserts with unearned confidence.

If possible, Alastor’s smile stretches even further. He stands, straightening out his jacket. “I look forward to your failed attempts at winning our daughter’s favor in real-time.”

“My daughter.”

Shadows unfurl from beneath Alastor’s feet, climbing up his limbs like dark vines, swallowing him piece by piece. He waves those slender talons at him before he's engulfed completely. “Toodles, chum!"

And just like that, the music that follows Alastor like a foxtrotting wraith is gone, leaving the parlor unusually quiet.

Lucifer stews for a long moment, wrestling with his impulse to jam the entire city’s radio signals. Now, wouldn't that send Alastor into a delightful tizzy? Maybe make him think twice about luring Eden back to him with promises of mice and cozy antlers. 

The red bow at the edge of his vision draws his attention once more. He realizes only then that Alastor has left his gift behind.

Given that one of his many monikers is temptation incarnate, Lucifer thinks it's ironic how little restraint he has when he's the one being tempted.

After all, it would be laughably easy, child's play really, for him to take a peek inside.

On one hand, it's considered improper etiquette to do so.

On the other hand, Alastor is a colossal asshole.

Hmm, decisions, decisions…

Lucifer squints, glancing side-to-side to ensure the coast is clear. No signs of life, not a stir of shadows.

He sets his sights back on the gift, snaps his fingers for necessary flair, and poof — the box and its wrappings blink out of existence.

Revealing a rubber duck wearing a dunce hat perched on the tiniest step stool known to man. 

How. Fucking. Dare.

Lucifer isn't so far removed that he's unaware others find his hobby peculiar and ‘silly.' But it's not like it's hurting anybody!

It's certainly worlds more tame than the sadistic hobbies sinners indulge in. 

Plus, ducks are awesome.

They were one of his first creations. On that basis alone, Lucifer is incredibly protective of them.

It shouldn’t surprise him that Alastor would take some harmless hobby of his, something that brought him a sliver of joy in this inescapable hellscape, and poke fun at him for it. 

Lucifer is, quite suddenly, feeling extremely petty. 

If Alastor wasn’t going to take this bonding exercise seriously, Lucifer wouldn’t be caught out, made to be the fool with a thoughtful gift only to be mocked in return. His pride wouldn’t allow it. It was his Sin for a reason.

With a wave, he returns Alastor’s gift to its previous state then heads to his suite to concoct a gift of equal offense.

Knowing how Alastor felt about newer media, it wasn't hard to come up with something Lucifer knew he'd hate. 

Granted, Lucifer himself loved vintage things, the classics and vinyls and old school radios, but also fuck Alastor in particular, he refused to bond over it with him. 

With only a thought, Lucifer secures Alastor's gift — the newest iPod complete with a carefully curated playlist consisting almost exclusively of Nickelback — with circus-themed wrapping paper.

If Alastor wanted to take a beloved hobby of his and make a mockery of it, Lucifer was more than willing to return the favor.

By the time everyone gathers in the parlor, Lucifer is feeling quite giddy in his anticipation of Alastor’s reaction — a screech of feedback or an appearance of his radio dial eyes would be positively delicious.

Once the usual suspects, plus a grifter or two, are present and accounted for, Charlie claps her hands together.

“I am so, so, SO excited to see everyone's gifts!" She gives her girlfriend a little elbow nudge and whispers quite loudly, "I told you they'd all do it, Vaggie!”

Vaggie sighs and smiles that indulgent smile, reserved specifically for his daughter. “As always, you were right, babe. Though, Husk, would it have killed you to wrap your gift?"

Said gift, a bottle of brandy clearly taken from the bar and possibly already missing a few fingers' worth of liquor, sits in front of him.

Husk huffs, “You're tellin' me that Angel’s obviously wrapped dildo is any better?”

“Hey!” Angel slaps two hands on the table. “It's supposed to be a surprise!”

It’s not, and it's entirely due to how precisely Angel has wrapped every rounded edge of said dildo. It makes for quite the transparent and obscene gift. The pink, shimmery bow affixed to the very tip sure doesn't help any. 

“Why would you gift anyone a dildo?” Vaggie mutters.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Angel counters. “I’ll have you know, I got this baby off the black market, straight from Lust. It’s top-of-the-line! You should check out the settings on this bad boy.”

“Anyways!” Charlie interrupts before the conversation can derail further. “Who’d like to go first?”

Lucifer rolls his eyes when Alastor raises his hand, oh-so-eager to humiliate him. Jackass.

No matter. It actually works in his favor for Alastor to go first. Now, no one can fault him for his petty gift; it'll be fair game. 

“It took me some time to think of a gift that I thought best suited you, your Majesty, with all your many interests and talents,” Alastor begins. He pushes the familiar box toward him then steps back again to settle both hands, one over the other, atop his cane. “I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I do hope you find this gift to your satisfaction.”

The patronizing tone filtered through radio static sets Lucifer on edge. His teeth feel too sharp in his mouth standing opposite Alastor, who looks down at him with gleaming sanguine eyes. Always mocking, always condescending, always winning at a game that he's cherry-picked the rules to.

Heat swells in Lucifer's throat, and when he breathes, smoke dances across his tongue.

“Hm,” he manages. “We'll see.”

He’s not willing to give Alastor the satisfaction of a slow reveal. He waves his hand above the box instead, eyes already narrowed into a glare, mouth parting, a sharp retort on his lips —

— only to falter when he doesn't find that little rubber duck staring up at him. 

Instead, a swan sits before him, sculpted of sparkling crystal. The lights of the lobby reflect off the spread of its wings (six of them, divided among two rows, mirroring Lucifer’s own), as it looks to take flight, casting an iridescent glimmer across the nearby wallpaper. A craftsman himself, Lucifer can see the minuscule divots and imperfections.

This was not a piece of art willed into existence by magic but instead done by hand.

He reaches out, reverent, fingers hovering over the edges. He traces it with his eyes. 

It's gorgeous. 

And Lucifer is… he's speechless.

“I had to pull a few strings to get this commissioned on such short notice, but I know how fond you are of feathered creatures,” Alastor speaks as Lucifer continues to survey the work of art. "Is it to your liking?” 

Lucifer swallows thickly, clearing his throat to allow for words that never come. 

He can’t remember the last time he was given such a gift.

Tokens of worship or sacrifices for summons, sure, but not… not something like this.

Now more than ever, he is grateful for his daughter’s innate ability to express all that he cannot.

“Alastor!” she says. “Wow, this is stunning!”

Alastor brushes her off with a smile. “Yes, well, I know how important it is to you that your father figures get along.”

Charlie’s eyes go wide at that, instantly welling with tears. The appreciation and approval in her expression, directed solely towards Alastor, is what finally kickstarts Lucifer’s brain. He tears his hand away from the swan figurine.  

“Wait a minute, this isn’t what was in — “

“Dad!” Charlie interrupts excitedly. “Why don’t you give Alastor his gift next?”

Charlie turns those beautiful eyes, endlessly hopeful like the cosmos, towards him — and Lucifer panics. 

He tries to think of something on the fly to swap out his gift for, but he can't, not when the spotlight is on him like this (proven as much when toaster and can opener are the first gift alternatives his brain unhelpfully supplies).

There’s simply no time to come up with something as thoughtful and aesthetically pleasing as Alastor’s gift, and now he's going to look terrible in front of —

Oh.

“You motherfucker. “

Alastor places a hand to his chest, aghast. “Is that how you say thank you, your Majesty?” he says with mock offense, but his eyes are aglow with satisfaction as he savors every bit of Lucifer's humiliation and anger.

Not even Charlie’s shriek is able to slow Lucifer down when he lunges, tackling Alastor to the ground.

His eyes burn with the intensity of their inversion, and it's hard to hear anything other than the crack of bone as his fist connects with Alastor's jaw. 

Oh, and Alastor just laughs and laughs, his bones popping as his body distorts and elongates beneath him. Tendrils lash out at Lucifer’s face, temporarily blinding him, compelling Lucifer to open all of his eyes to lock onto his malformed target.

If it’s the last thing he does, Lucifer is going to end this unrepentant piece of —

“Dad, stop!”

There are hands on both of them then, tearing them apart, and it's only for the love of his daughter and perhaps by the grace of the God that disavowed him that Lucifer allows himself to be pulled off.

Fifteen minutes later, Lucifer finds himself sharing one of the small round tables in the parlor with the little punk-ass bitch he'd just tried to murder, holding an icepack to one of his black eyes. 

It’s entirely unnecessary given that his injuries will heal themselves in no time, but it calms Charlie down some to play nurse, and he owes her that much after turning her bonding activity into a brawl.

Not that it's his fault.

Not entirely.

He looks at Alastor with his uncovered eye as they sit silently on their respective timeouts.

The Radio Demon's smile is intact, though lopsided courtesy of his dislocated jaw. Niffty is at his shoulders, wrapping an absurd amount of gauze around his head to keep his jawbone from hanging.

Despite his injuries, Lucifer feels a thousand times better now. As it turns out, punching Alastor in the face has done wonders for the tension in his body. He feels less on edge; still annoyed but lacking the fiery rage from before. 

Alastor seems calmer, too, the stiff line of his spine more relaxed as he drums his claws on the table to the beat of a jazzy tune. 

Charlie stands across the room from them, speaking in hushed tones with Vaggie. Guilt laces through him at her distressed gesticulating. Provoked or not, he is aware that he pretty much ruined the whole activity she had planned.

He's grateful that Vaggie had immediately believed him when he accused Alastor of instigating the attack.

It would seem that not everyone is so easily charmed by The Radio Demon. 

“I should throttle you,” Lucifer says quietly, without any real heat. “You completely set me up.”

“I haven’t the faintest clue what you mean.”

Lucifer huffs, settling back in his chair. “Charlie won’t be able to save you forever.”

“Ha! Surely you jest,” Alastor says through layers of static, voice garbled due to his injury. “I do not need saving.”

“Certainly needed saving from Adam.”

The overhead lights flicker, and the temperature in the room drops several degrees worth. 

The atmospheric change earns them a few concerned looks.

Lucifer smiles reassuringly at Charlie from afar, reaffirming their ceasefire with a raise of his hands, even though he's quite proud of the direct hit to Alastor's pride.  

Trusting that another fight isn't about to break out, Charlie turns back to Vaggie and resumes their conversation.

In the minutes that pass, Lucifer's attention drifts elsewhere — specifically over to the pair at the bar. 

Angel Dust is leaning forward, talking animatedly to Husk, cracking inappropriate jokes if Lucifer had to guess. Even from here, he can see the fondness in Angel's gaze. He finds it hard to believe that Husk doesn’t see it, too.

“Husk is far too self-deprecating in nature to attempt to court our effeminate spider resident,” Alastor says as if reading his thoughts.

Lucifer lowers the ice pack from his face, eye already significantly less swollen, to fix Alastor with a reproachful stare. 

“What would you know about courting someone?”

“Quite a lot, actually,” Alastor replies as he begins to undo the gauze, having sufficiently humored Niffty. Discarding it on the table, he lifts his hand to cradle his jaw. A sickening crack reverberates between them when Alastor snaps the bone back into its socket with startling ease. Voice clearer now, he continues, “A lack of interest does not equate to a lack of knowledge.”

“Hm.” Lucifer considers this. His gaze returns to the duo across the way. “Fair enough.”

It's weird, having an actual conversation with Alastor, but he supposes they're both more amenable now that they've let off some steam. 

More to himself, he says, “It’s kinda cute, them dancing around each other.”

“It’s soppy nonsense is what it is,” Alastor retorts with distaste before amending, “but entertaining, nonetheless. Not that Valentino would allow Angel Dust to properly date anyone.”

“Valentino? That grotesque moth sinner?”

“One and the same,” Alastor hums. “He’s part of the collective known as the Vees, a group of Overlords managed by an esoteric joke of a man named Vox.”

“Vox,” Lucifer repeats, wading through his vast memory space. “Oh yeah, the guy that looks like he goes to parks to punch birds? Has a television for a head?"

The undignified snort from Alastor is entirely unexpected, taking Lucifer by surprise.

"An apt description, your Majesty.” Scarlet eyes glitter with mirth. “Not a fan of his, I take it?”

Lucifer lifts a single shoulder. “I don't know him personally, but any man who makes TV his entire identity is a joke in my book. Everything on television these days is hot garbage. Scrambles the brain, if you ask me.”

Alastor lights up in gleeful agreement. “Indeed." He pauses. "And what of the woman? Velvette?"

“The one with her phone glued to her face?" At Alastor's nod, he says, "I tell you what, you humans are responsible for a lot of shitty things, but smartphones are the absolute worst. What in the Hell was wrong with landlines?"

Alastor turns to him fully now, his perfectly aligned smile on display.

With a twirl of his wrist, he summons a kettle and two mugs — his, and one clearly intended for Lucifer, emblazoned with the words “Duck Off.”

Lucifer snorts to mask his delight.

"May I interest you in some tea?" Alastor offers. 

Lucifer knows a temporary truce when he sees one.

And as opposed to the earlier gift exchange, this one actually seems quite genuine. He doubts it’ll extend into tomorrow, but he can feel Charlie’s eyes on him, and he has some serious dad points to make up for.

“Sure.”

Alastor serves them both a gracious pour. When Lucifer gathers the mug into his hands, the warmth of the drink permeates into his palms. He brings the rim to his lips and breathes in deeply, chasing the delicate herbal notes. 

Any lingering tension seeps out of his shoulders with his next exhale.

"Now, if you please." Alastor leans forward onto his elbows and folds his hands neatly under his chin. He is the perfect image of an attentive audience. "I wish to hear more of your distaste for both the Vees and modern technology.”

Chapter Text

Lucifer isn’t sure if he’s just been terribly distracted as of late or if Eden is becoming more innovative in her attempts at escape (both, it’s definitely both), but he manages to lose track of her three more times in the following week. 

It'd been a challenge to keep her contained even before his impromptu tea time with Alastor, but since then, she's been more determined than ever to fraternize with the enemy. 

Lucifer doesn’t understand why. It’s not like anything had changed between them; not really. Their temporary ceasefire lasted all of twenty minutes before they'd defaulted back to bickering. 

Lucifer scrubs his face, fighting a wave of preemptive exhaustion as he readies himself. He knows he needs to address Eden's defiant behavior sooner rather than later, but he doubts she’ll heed his warning. She never has before, and he doesn’t expect her to start now. It's against her nature, after all, to utilize restraint, to consider first the consequences of her actions.

He’s left, once again, entertaining the notion of placing her into a semi-permanent stasis.

The thought makes him grimace.  

He really doesn’t want to, but his options are limited. Every time he needs to track Alastor down and demand he hand over his unruly snake, he’s struck with a fresh wave of humiliation. He can only incur so much of it. 

Sighing, Lucifer brushes his palm down his jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles in the fabric. He squares his shoulders. 

Might as well get this over with. 

He opts for the scenic route this time, taking the stairs down to the lobby. It’s another early morning, meaning the parlor is relatively empty when he arrives. 

Husk is stationed at the bar, polishing a glass. Lucifer absently wonders if it's the same one he’s been working on since they'd rebuilt the hotel. 

Niffty is around, too, scurrying in and out of his field of vision. She is a woman on a mission in her quest to vanquish every fleck of dust this side of Pentagram City, and Lucifer is mindful enough to steer clear of her. 

And then, of course, there’s Alastor perched on the loveseat by the fireplace. His cane is propped against the armrest, and his 'Oh Deer!' mug sits on the side table. His crossed legs allow the rounded edge of his knee to serve as a makeshift table for the small booklet in his hands.

He twirls a pencil around his fingers with easy grace, his gaze thoughtful as his eyes flit across the page. There’s a scattering of music in the air; classical this time. 

To the untrained eye, it’d appear like Alastor is wholly preoccupied and oblivious to his surroundings.

But Lucifer has already clocked Alastor’s shadow, skittering along the wall, tracking his movements like an invasive weed tracks the sun. 

He resists flipping it off in greeting.

Just. 

“Hey, asshole!” 

Alastor doesn’t look up, but his distaste is evident in his tone at Lucifer’s less-than-formal greeting. 

“No manners to speak of,” Alastor mutters, then louder, he says, “Are you familiar with the phrase, ‘hay is for horses?’” 

“You got me there," Lucifer says. "I guess you are more of a jackass.” 

Alastor’s smile twitches at the corners. When he lifts his eyes to him, there’s a glimmer of amusement in that maroon gaze.

"Always such a delight, your Majesty." Alastor sets his booklet down on a side table — really, the crossword? — to deign him with his undivided attention. “However can I assist our most diminutive ruler this morning?”

“You could shut up and tell me where Eden is.”

Alastor cants his head to the side. “Apologies, would you like me to speak or stay silent?”

Lucifer pauses. “I… really hate you." He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "So much."

To Lucifer's chagrin, Alastor perks up at that, terribly pleased with himself. 

Lucifer takes a page out of Charlie's therapy group and counts to ten before speaking again. "Just tell me where Eden is."

Alastor offers him a whimsy, exaggerated shrug in return. “How should I know?” 

“I know you have her."

There’s that mock offense again in the way Alastor reaches for his imaginary pearls. “My liege, are you calling me a liar?” 

“Yes, indeedy,” Lucifer says. “A homicidal, cannibalistic one at that. Why the Hell do I let you around my daughter again?”

“Do you really believe that I would hurt our dear Charlie?”

“First off, not yours." It's really just an automatic response at this point. “Second, if I believed she was in actual danger, I would've erased you from existence the moment we met. That still doesn't mean I trust you.”

“Pity," Alastor parries. "I’ll have you know that I am quite trustworthy.” 

“That'd be a lot more convincing if there wasn’t maniacal laughter blaring from your mic right now.” 

Alastor's ears flick, one after the other, in surprise. The laughter emanating from his cane cuts off abruptly. 

The music returns a moment later, playing quiet, placating acoustics. 

“Pay that no mind,” Alastor says. 

Oh, how simple things would be if he could simply not pay Alastor any attention.

Being the most powerful being in Hell, near the universe, Lucifer already knows how easy it'd be to dismiss the tall, prey-coded sinner with his ridiculous fluffy ears and tiny antlers as a non-threat. 

But he's already faced the consequences of hubris one too many times before, and he refused to lower his guard in the face of this walking oxymoron.

Lucifer reigns in his wandering thoughts, pointless as they are, and circles back to the reason he'd approached Alastor in the first place…

…only to find the space in his brain that remembers such things markedly empty, lost to the void that is his dwindling attention span, current fixations aside. 

“Uh,” Lucifer says intelligently, “so… about what we were talking about before…”

Alastor’s smile sharpens, reminiscent of a shark that smells blood in the water. “What about it?”

Lucifer grapples at the whispers of his short-term working memory, but it's so impaired that it's near impossible to find anything helpful these days. 

He tightens his grip on his cane. 

“I…”

He falls quiet, unsure of how to salvage his pride here. 

Meanwhile, Alastor waits, patient as ever and seemingly content to watch him squirm until he's forced to admit to how much of a joke he really is.

There is mercy then, sharp and jagged as it is, when Alastor speaks. “How difficult you make it to underestimate you," he says. 

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Lucifer retorts, and it's so much easier like this, to hide his self-loathing behind insults and anger. “You're such an insufferable asshole, you know that? I honestly have no idea why Eden wants to be arou — OH!” He snaps his fingers in minor victory. “That's right, you were about to tell me where Eden was before I kicked your ass.” 

“My, my, you certainly have a habit of losing track of your things,” says Alastor. He gestures down the slender length of his body with a wave of his hand. Lucifer does not allow his gaze to follow. “Does it look like I have her?”

No, but that doesn't mean much. Lucifer can sense her, after all; he knows she's nearby.

It's possible, he grants, that she's gone off this time for other reasons, in search of something else she cannot have, but Lucifer highly doubts it. 

But sure, he'll play ball.

Taking a step back, Lucifer cast a wary glance around the parlor, expanding his awareness.

It only takes a moment for his focus to zero in on Alastor once more as he locates her signature, revealing her exact location.

Caught, a little hiss escapes Alastor's person. 

“What was that?” Lucifer asks. 

Alastor plays coy. “What was what now?”

The hiss comes again. 

It rings like a giggle in Lucifer's head.

Lucifer’s eyes drop to Alastor’s chest pocket. The twitching of the fabric is remarkably subtle. 

A moment later, a little smooth-scaled head pops out. Eden sports a tiny top hat that mirrors his own (even vexed, Lucifer can admit she looks pretty darn cute in it; did Alastor get her that?).

She meets Lucifer's gaze, not an ounce of shame to be found.   

A forked tongue scents the air in greeting. 

“Ah,” Alastor says at last. “It would seem she is here after all. Fancy that.”

Lucifer's body tingles as his demonic form draws closer to the surface, reacting to a flood of rage.  

What in the Hell does Alastor take him for? He's an archangel, a King, for fuck's sake, and his time isn't Alastor's to waste.

He opens his mouth, smoke on his tongue, ready to say all of that and more —

But the fire within him is doused instantly when he takes in the softened slopes of Alastor's expression and the fond edge of his smile.

He watches, stunned, as Alastor boops Eden's little hat. 

It's a look that he's only caught glimpses of.

Once when Niffty presented Alastor with a new and improved roach crown. Another time, when Charlie was in the midst of a long-winded rant, speaking with her whole fucking chest about redemption and forgiveness. 

Lucifer had certainly never imagined he'd see such a look directed at him, extension or otherwise. 

He uses his power to call Eden to him before he can make an utter fool out of himself.

She vanishes from Alastor's pocket, and Lucifer’s hat sinks near imperceptibly on his head when she manifests back on her rightful perch.

He’ll apologize for the abrupt mode of transport later when they're alone, but he cannot — will not — endure further embarrassing himself in front of Alastor. 

“Shame,” Alastor tutts with a close-lipped smile. “We were having a rather delightful morning before your arrival.” 

Lucifer refuses to feel a modicum of guilt for that; absolutely not. “You encouraging her to defy me does not exactly engender my goodwill, you know,” he says. 

Alastor’s eyelids lower to half-mast, scrutinizing him. “Why does it bother you so?” he queries, reclining further into his chair. “Is it a jealousy thing like Charlie? That mon serpent prefers my company over yours?”

“Are you jo — Jesus, fuck.” Lucifer drags his hand down his face to rest over his mouth. A huff of disbelieving laughter slips from between his fingers. “You are such an asshole.”

“As you’ve said.”

With Eden returned, there’s really no reason for Lucifer to stay any longer. 

There is certainly nothing that Alastor can do to compel him to answer his question. 

Still, he hesitates, wondering if it's perhaps better to offer Alastor something, anything, other than evasion, if only so the Radio Demon isn't inclined to go digging for his own answers. 

Lucifer drums his claws along the apple of his cane. “She shouldn’t be wandering off,” he eventually says. “She… doesn’t know any better.” And then, quieter, because he really should keep the extra commentary to himself, he says, “I only mean to keep her safe.”

The amount of judgment that permeates the space between them is so tangible, it's nearly a separate entity.

“How patronizing,” Alastor remarks coolly. “Oh, to be locked away in an ivory tower. I’d escape at every opportunity, too.”

“You don’t — couldn't — understand."

Alastor doesn't even blink. “Perhaps,” he allows. “But in my experience, to stifle one's existence is to fan the flames of their rebellion. I would think that you, of all people, would empathize with that.”

Once more, Lucifer loses his foothold, and his anger ebbs. 

There is no point, he realizes, in arguing with a being like Alastor, with a man who doesn’t care for nuances or special circumstances, who sees the world in black and white and does not allow for shades of gray. 

Exhaustion overwhelms Lucifer, suddenly, mercilessly. 

He allows the sudden weight of it to lower his body onto the couch adjacent to Alastor. He’s really had quite enough of the sinner's company for the day, but he can feel the stormcloud in his peripheral, darkening his door, and he fears if he retreats to his room now, he may not come out again.

Charlie will be here soon, his brilliant pocket of sunshine, eager to share her agenda for the day with him and the others, and he can’t risk disappointing her more than he already has. 

So, he tilts his head back against the sofa and waits.

Alastor, to his relief, says nothing. 

The music from his cane swells to fill in the gaps left by their lack of conversation. 

If nothing else, it allows the polarizing beings to coexist for a little longer. 

After a while, Lucifer finds himself drifting to another place where self-important Radio Demons aren’t allowed. 

He can’t fully surrender to it, not now in mixed company, but he floats away just enough to feel the dappled sunlight beneath a canopy of leaves. The sky and greenery have jagged tears in them, ripples that display the red and gold accents of the hotel’s wallpaper, to keep him anchored to the present. 

He’s only there a few short minutes when Alastor’s voice filters over to him. 

“Where do you go?"

Lucifer blinks himself back into full awareness, allowing the scene to dissolve and tuck itself back into his soul. He finds Alastor watching him, his gaze perceptive.

At some point, he'd exchanged his crossword for his drink. He nurses the mug with both hands. 

“What?” Lucifer half-grumbles. 

“When you abandon all sense of decorum and fade into utter obliviousness,” Alastor clarifies like a dick. “Where do you go? Inquiring minds would love to know.”

Lucifer doesn't believe for a second that Alastor is genuinely interested in his inner musings. He knows with certainty that Alastor is as cunning as he is ruthless and that he operates almost entirely on ulterior motives. 

Recon, perhaps? Maybe he simply wants to parse the depth of Lucifer’s power, to determine if Lucifer checks in with his domain when he zones out, to know if he's capable of watching the events unfolding everywhere and anywhere in Hell. 

Lucifer could, in fact, do that, but he doesn't.

Why in the everliving fuck would he want to know what sinners got up to in their spare time?

“Someplace quiet,” is all Lucifer is willing to say on the matter. 

Humming, Alastor takes a sip of his drink. He sets his mug back down on the table. “How terrible it must be for you to be alone with your thoughts," he muses. 

It’s meant as an insult, but Lucifer can’t help but laugh at the painful truth of it. “You don’t know the half of it,” he says bitterly. "However, last time I checked, it wasn’t a sin to daydream. Everyone does it.” 

Tension infuses itself into Alastor’s frame. Oh, has Lucifer touched a nerve?

Good. 

“How very privileged of you to think that everyone has the luxury to indulge in such flights of fancy,” Alastor says, the venom in his tone palpable. “Hypervigilance and paranoia is a requirement for an Overlord such as myself to keep a second, more permanent death at arm's length.”

“I mean, okay, sure,” Lucifer acquiesces, though his sympathy for Overlords totals in the negatives. “But you can’t do that all the time. I mean, you sleep, don't you?"

“I do not.”

Lucifer raises a single brow. “Often?”

“Ever.”

The other brow raises to meet its twin, high on Lucifer’s forehead. 

Granted, sleep isn’t a requirement in Hell. If it was, it’d be all too easy for sinners to boycott it as a means to end an eternity of suffering and, simply put, Hell is not designed to be merciful. 

But where it is possible to exist here without sleep, it's not exactly recommended. 

Forgoing sleep for extended periods of time was a surefire way to have a Bad Time.™

And here Alastor was insinuating he hadn’t slept in… what, decades?   

Lucifer examines Alastor, armed with this new information. 

He seems well enough, poised and proper and stiff as the stick up his ass. 

He's not jittery, not crawling out of his skin, nor does he look to be on the precipice of a proper breakdown. There’s tension, sure, but not the degree of restlessness that Lucifer would expect to find after denying himself basic comforts for so long. 

Perhaps, Alastor had already surpassed that threshold and had come full circle into calm, cool, and collected lunacy. 

Maybe that was why he was so unhinged and borderline demented, why a single unexpected pat on the back or graze across his arm often resulted in property damage or the appearance of his eldritch horror counterpart. 

“How do you stay up?” asks Lucifer, morbidly curious. 

“Self-preservation compels me to," Alastor answers easily. “The screams of the damned help. As does the noise.”

“What noise?”

Alastor looks at him like one does a particularly dumb creature. He twirls his wrist in a vague gesture. “The music. The static. Do pay attention, your Majesty."

Lucifer is too surprised by the revelation to take any offense. “The… your cane? You mean it stays on all the time? Even when you’re alone?”

Alastor actually seems amused by that. “Did you think it turned off?”

“I mean, yeah, sort of,” Lucifer says. “I thought you controlled it.”

“Hm.” Alastor goes quiet as he seems to turn over his answer in his head. Lucifer imagines he's reluctant to admit that he doesn’t have indisputable control of what essentially functions as the conduit of his power. “Mostly,” he eventually allows. “But no, it doesn’t have an off switch.”

Huh. 

So, Alastor hadn’t known sleep, hadn’t known rest, since his arrival?

Lucifer almost pities him. 

Or he would if he did not know that Alastor deserved every bit of punishment for the atrocities he’d committed on Earth, for how he’d twisted the gift of free will to hurt and maim and destroy when he could’ve used it instead to aid and build and create. 

No rest for the wicked, as the saying goes. 

Alastor doesn’t seem to mind it though, not really, and Lucifer considers that maybe the lack of sleep and the constant noise isn’t much of a punishment for Alastor. 

After all, Lucifer wouldn’t mind some background music to accompany him throughout the day. The distraction from his ever-present thoughts would be welcomed, if anything. He found acoustics rather soothing, string instruments in particular. 

But he supposes the grass is always greener — another adage to summarize this exchange. 

Lucifer notices then Alastor rolling his neck along his shoulders, cracking it as grotesquely as he can. 

“Something s’matter?” 

Lucifer doesn’t know why he bothered to ask. He doesn’t actually care for the answer but leave it to him to say the first thing that pops into his head. 

“Is that concern I hear? For a lowly sinner such as myself, no less? You flatter me, your Grace,” Alastor ridicules him as expected. “Don’t you worry your little head about me,” he says. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. Just a strain in my neck that I’ve been afflicted with ever since your arrival.”

Har-har, because Lucifer’s so short, how clever. 

Rolling his eyes, Lucifer casts a lazy wave around the parlor. “Survey the vast amount of off into which you can fuck, Alastor.”

It’s muffled this time, intentionally suppressed, but it happens again — Alastor makes an amused little snort. 

“Well, you're in luck, Sire, as it is time for me to take my leave,” Alastor announces with a flick of his wrist. His mug and crossword are engulfed in shadows as soon as he stands. “So little time, so many souls to collect. You know how it goes. Please tell our dear daughter — “

“My daughter.”

“ — that I will return at noon.” 

Alastor turns fully towards him then. He bows at the waist, bringing their gazes more level, their faces closer. “It’s been a pleasure as always,” he says. “I look forward to seeing you again soon, my dear.”

Lucifer jolts. “Wha — ?” The word catches on his surprise, and it takes Lucifer longer than he'd like to pull together a semi-coherent response. “Uh — I — I mean, it was alright, I guess,” he says articulately. “You’re not terrible to talk to when you’re not trying to be a prick. It was kinda — anddddd you were talking to Eden, not me." Lucifer purses his lips, nodding. "Alright, well, fuck off already, would ya?”

Alastor’s smile is positively wicked. “As you wish, Sire.” 

He straightens once more and pivots on his heels. Shadows answer his silent call, pooling at his feet, ready to whisk him away.

He glances over his shoulder before they do.

“You’re not completely awful,” he says, “A fumbling buffoon, yes, but entertaining nonetheless.”

Lucifer huffs, “Just go before I smite you.”

And with one final parting grin, Alastor does just that, disappearing into the shadows. 

Alleviated, at least momentarily, Lucifer sinks into the cushions and allows himself to be swallowed by them. The reprieve is brief but necessary. He needs to reset before the next bout of socializing commences. 

Some fifteen minutes later, Charlie descends the grand staircase.

Lucifer greets her with a big hug and an even bigger smile. Her ragtag group of misfits, who have become a weird dysfunctional family to her, slowly but surely trickle into the room after her.  

Truth be told, Lucifer is still not sold on this idea of hers, this belief that sinners can be redeemed, but he won't jeopardize this second chance she’s so graciously given him to play a more active role in her life. 

It is difficult though, embarrassingly so, to function normally in public like this. He still hasn't figured out how to balance his desire for companionship with his impulse to shy away from others. Every time he speaks in a group, he's left overthinking every interaction, agonizing over what he’d said and what he should’ve said, and it's exhausting. 

He suppresses the urge to lock himself away forever behind a strained smile whenever he's around others, but some days, it's so so so hard. 

He holds it together throughout the entirety of this little pow-wow, smothering the random spikes of anxiety when they pop up for no reason at all. He's able to distract himself with his daughter's antics, watching her spin around the room, singing and radiating so much hope.

He did, too, once upon a time.

Before it had been stripped of him, alongside his wings.

He simply isn’t built like her anymore. 

The moment Lucifer crosses the threshold into his suite, he slumps his weight against the door. He takes what feels like his very first breath in hours and, for one glorious moment, the tension lifts from his frame, hovering around him like dust. 

Then, he exhales, and it settles atop him once more.

It’s tempting, the urge to slide down the wooden door and lie on the floor. The only reason he doesn't is because he knows he'll be stuck there for hours if he gives in. He can see it now, him paralyzed on the floor, unable to scrounge together the fortitude to do anything but stare blankly at the ceiling. 

So, he pushes himself off the door and uses the momentum to propel himself forward, onward. 

He disrobes slowly, mechanically, and digs out a pair of loose, cotton pajamas from his drawers. For the brief moment that he is nude, he feels exposed, even in the privacy of his own room. There is no one around to judge the raised, hideous scars on his back or the tainted ombre of his arms. No one except himself, possibly the harshest judge of all, excluding only his maker.  

Once changed, Lucifer hides himself under the countless blankets on his bed, burrowing away. Only once he’s sure he can’t be perceived by a single soul does he allow himself to fully succumb. 

With his next breath, he’s back in the garden, propped against an apple tree. It gleams with rich fruit, ripe for the picking. 

The cool bark behind his head is grounding, as is the grass beneath his palms. The light breeze cards invisible fingers through his hair, tousling it, and Lucifer sighs. 

The sensory input, even muted, is both wonderfully and horribly familiar.

Closing his eyes, he turns his face toward the sun; not nearly as warm as the real thing, but it's enough. Gluttony might not be his Sin, but he'll greedily accept any modicum of what once was.  

Here, in the recesses of his mind, in this plane of timeless purgatory, he doesn’t have to put on a show or wear a mask. He can simply exist, just him and his ghosts, and it’s terribly, painstakingly lonely, but at the very least, he is free.

“Hey, you came back!” 

The voice that accompanies the greeting has a lilt to it, thrilled by the prospect of company. 

Lucifer opens his eyes and finds an angel standing before him with a dopey little smile on his face. Bright eyes, blue as the sky, stare down at him beneath a halo of blond (as well as an actual halo).

Wings, white and uncorrupted, frame the angel who is perpetually young, foolishly hopeful, and naïve in a way that will destroy him. 

“I created something new today,” the angel says enthusiastically. “Did you want to see?”

Lucifer smiles tiredly at him, exhaustion weaving in and out of the patched-up fabric of his soul. “Ah, sorry, kiddo,” he says, “I’m pretty tuckered out today.”

"Oh," the angel frowns. "How come?”

“It..." Lucifer exhales deeply, "It was just a long day. Had to be around a lot of people.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” the angel replies. His expression flickers, making room for something sadder. “It’s lonely being all by yourself,” he adds, and Lucifer knows he’s speaking from experience, from a lifetime of exclusion and jealousy from his fellow brethren. 

Lucifer doesn’t quite have the heart to tell him that it can be lonely when surrounded by others, too. 

“Yeah,” is all he says. 

Sighing quietly, the angel takes a step back, allowing him some space. "Well, maybe next time," he says gently. “I’ll, uh, let you rest then.”

Disappointment has dimmed the angel's gaze, but it's accompanied by a smile that is forever understanding, that cares so desperately about the comfort of others. Lucifer is reminded of Charlie.

He reaches out to the angel instinctively. He knows what's in store for him, and he can't... he just can't let him do this alone. 

"Wait," Lucifer pleads softly. He beckons him closer. "Let me see what you made."

The change in the angel's demeanor is instantaneous. 

His eyes shimmer like sunlight on water, and his plumage vibrates in his excitement to share the wonders of creation with another. 

A flower, blood red like the apples that hang above their heads, appears in his smooth, ivory palms.

A poppy in full, glorious bloom. 

Lucifer gazes at it fondly. His heart aches.

He looks up into expectant blue eyes and murmurs, “It’s beautiful, Lucifer.”

Chapter Text

“Give him a chance? You’re joking, right?”

Lucifer cradles the rubber duck in his hand, angling it toward the desk lamp. Forked tongue peeking between his lips in concentration, he twirls his wrist in a precise circle. The paintbrush between his fingers follows the motion, the bristles leaving behind a trail of white.

“He's a violent psychopath who takes amusement in the suffering and misfortune of others,” Lucifer continues. “There's not much else I need to know about him.”

“Hiss.”

“Oh, puh-lease.” Lucifer exchanges his brush for another, finer-tipped. He dips it in the small mound of black paint on his palette then makes another circle, smaller and within the confines of the first — a pupil. “He’s bad news, and you know it.”

“Hissssss.”

Sighing, Lucifer lowers both the duck and his paintbrush onto the cherry wood surface of his workbench. He swivels on his cushioned stool to look over at his nightstand, presently cluttered with his accessories. Eden is there, nestled on the top of his hat. The thin line of her body is coiled tightly in frustration.

“Listen, I know you enjoy spending time with him,” he starts, then to himself, he mutters, “for some fucking reason.”

Louder, he continues, “But I need you to stay away from him — no, no, don’t give me that look. It’s for your own good.”

“Hiss, hiss, hissss!”

“Okay, well, that’s just hurtful.”

Eden doesn’t look at all remorseful for her outburst. Rather, she holds her head high in opposition, her gaze staunchly petulant.

Lucifer fights the urge to shrink away from her displeasure. He tells himself that he has to be the bad guy here (always, always the bad guy), even if she hates him for it.

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time someone he loved resented him.

He lifts a hand to cover his eyes; his thumb and forefinger rub small circles around his temples. “Look,” Lucifer exhales. “I get it, you’re angry at me. But I’m not going to be changing my mind about this. There are plenty of other people here to spend time with if you’re just looking for company. You know how much Charlie likes having you around. And Razzle and KeeKee, too! Just…” he blows out another long breath, deflating some, “anyone but him, okay?”

“Ss.”

He doesn't even get a full hiss now.

Upset radiates from Eden's scales as she abandons her perch to slink down and curl around the base of his hat.

He can feel her hurt in his own heart, and he folds on himself, slightly.  

Lucifer adores Eden. She's been his one loyal companion throughout his very, very long life, ever since the Garden.

He doesn't want to take this away from her but… he can't let her have this.

Not this time.

Standing, he approaches the nightstand, closing the distance between them. He squats, bending low to meet her eyes.  

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Sweetie, I'm sorry, okay? I know this is upsetting, but I'm just looking out for you. Can't you see that? I don't want to see you hurt and he… this — it will hurt.”

She must know it, too, he thinks, but maybe just not with the same absolute certainty that Lucifer does.

But the conversation ends there, as Lucifer senses the moment she triggers her own stasis.

He can feel her consciousness, her autonomy, receding from the outskirts of his mind, but the hurt remains.

He smothers his guilt — reminds himself that this really is for the best.

When he turns back to his workbench, he looks upon his half-finished project with disinterest. The scraps of joy that he’d been able to glean from it have tapered into near nonexistence. 

His room feels stuffy now, stifling as opposed to freeing. As much as Lucifer yearns for peace, for stillness, he can’t quite cope with the sudden silence around him, the despairing loneliness that will eat him alive if he lets it.

In need of a new distraction, Lucifer abandons his suite entirely. 

It’s quite early still, and Lucifer thinks of ways he can make himself useful. Surely, the staff would appreciate some pancakes? If nothing else, it would keep his hands and mind busy. Maybe then, he'd feel like he was earning his keep here.

He’s felt rather aimless ever since they'd rebuilt the hotel. The construction had allowed him to use his powers for some good, to build something wonderful — the physical manifestation of his daughter's dreams. It’d given him a fleeting sense of purpose and, in the expansive sea of eternity, it’d been a buoy for him.

But now, with all seeming to return to status quo, he finds himself adrift again. With each passing day, he feels more and more self-conscious that he's simply in the way.

Breakfast though… yeah, he can do breakfast.

Lost to his musings, Lucifer nearly jumps out of his skin when he opens the door to his suite and finds a single, large, unblinking eye waiting for him.

He’ll argue until the universe turns to dust that the shriek he let out was a dignified one.

The fact that he is nearly impossible to kill apparently does nothing to counter how easily startled he is.

“Niffty!” Lucifer says, voice pitched high in surprise. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly to give his hand something to do. “Uh, how goes bug hunting?” he blurts out. 

The tiny cyclops beams. “They’ve made a full tactical retreat from the common areas, Sir,” she announces proudly. Then, muttering, she adds, “But now they are plotting their counterattack. I can hear them in the walls.”

“Oh, well, that’s, ah…” Lucifer forces a smile, “something.”

While Lucifer wouldn’t go out on a limb and claim that he and Niffty were friends, he likes her well enough. After he'd been sidelined by Charlie and her infinite capacity for mercy and forgiveness, Niffty had taken matters into her own hands by ridding the universe of Adam.

For that alone, Lucifer would always hold her in higher regard than other sinners.

That said, her presence at his door this early in the morning was… unnerving?

It wasn't like he'd taken her up on her offer to tidy his suite, though his space could certainly use some TLC. As it stands, he still isn't comfortable allowing anyone other than Charlie into his room, his reasons being equal parts embarrassment (there were a lot of ducks) and preservation. His bedroom is a reflection of his inner chaos, of all the things he’d held dear, his designated safe space, and to allow another person to see that, to see him, well… let's just say he’d rather avoid that, if possible.

“Uh,” Lucifer prompts, uncertain, “did you… need something?”

Niffty perks up at that. 

Just as quickly, she slumps over, crestfallen.

“Alastor won’t let me play with the bad boys,” she cries, anguished. “But maybe if I had my angelic blade back, he’d let me!”

Uh, yeah, no. Sans another extermination, there was no scenario in which Lucifer returned a blade made of angelic steel to Niffty and set her loose unsupervised. What a terrifying prospect, even for Hell.

But hold on, back up a second, did she just say — 

“There are bad boys here?” asks Lucifer. 

Niffty nods empathetically. “And a bad girl,” she sing-songs.

Huh. Okay, interesting.

On one hand, Niffty’s criteria for ‘bad’ was a bit misleading, meaning it could be nothing at all. 

Then again, for Alastor to send Niffty away spoke to more of a legitimate threat. 

Curious, Lucifer calls forth a fraction of his idle power.

Wisps, invisible and laced with his magic, unfurl from his fingertips, seeking out hostiles. 

He finds them at the front entrance, reeking of demonic energy (well, at least, it wasn’t angels at their doorstep, that’s a plus in his book).

And then, there's Alastor with his own signature of decay and mayhem, his shadows writhing and bloodthirsty.

Lucifer lingers on Alastor for a long moment, because there, mixed in with Alastor's demonic powers, is the tiniest sliver of angelic energy. It’s faint, like smoke after a fire, more of the memory than anything substantial. 

Super weird, but not overtly concerning, Lucifer decides, given how minuscule it is. A relic from the extermination, perhaps. 

Lucifer doesn’t actually think Alastor needs his help. He’s seen first-hand exactly how The Radio Demon defends the hotel from sinners with nefarious intentions (by eating them, historically speaking).

Still, he supposes it wouldn’t hurt to see for himself what has Alastor so worked up this early in the morning.

His primary focus shifts back to Niffty.

“Ah, the blade, right,” Lucifer says, “Uh, you know, I actually think Angel Dust has it.”

He doesn’t; Lucifer had tucked it away for safekeeping in a dimension far, far away from Niffty’s grabby hands. But, as he's proved time and time again, he’s never been any good at thinking on his feet.

“Yay! Thank you, Sir!” Niffty says, her eye bright with glee. She scurries along down the hall and out of sight, presumably in search of Angel Dust, who is most certainly still sleeping after another late night at the studio. 

Blech. Sorry, kiddo, Lucifer’s mind supplies.

Alone once more, Lucifer summons a portal to take him to the hotel's front doors. He steps out onto the upper concrete landing of the grand staircase and immediately draws the attention of everyone present.

Sharing the same landing, a few feet to his left, is Alastor.

His eyes are fixed on their guests, but his ears swivel sideways at his arrival like fuzzy satellite discs, trying to catch a signal.

Okay, that has no right to be so disarming.

“Ah, your Majesty,” Alastor greets him. “Always a pleasure.”

It's a little too early for that amount of snark but, whatever, Lucifer lets it slide for now.

He cocks his head toward the sinners gathered at the bottom of the staircase. “Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your friends?”

Lucifer already knows who they are, knows them in the way he knows most things; distantly.

But he and Alastor had talked just recently about this particular trio.

The Vees.

They’re all appraising him now, looking more perplexed than anything, which is a pretty standard reaction in his experience. He knows he doesn’t make a remarkable first impression.

He figures official introductions are in order. Even if he doesn't look the part, oftentimes a reminder of his title is enough to make sinners think twice before starting shit.

“Hm, what a strange way to pronounce pests,” Alastor ponders aloud. He finally turns, presenting Lucifer with his profile. “Though I suppose I can oblige by such a straightforward request.”

Alastor waves a hand out towards him, tapping into his innate sense of showmanship. “Vees, may I introduce you to our very own vertically-challenged sovereign, Lucifer Morningstar.”

Lucifer grumbles, “Twat.”

Undeterred, Alastor gestures towards the moth sinner, reclined against the door of the limo Lucifer is assuming they arrived in. Lucifer eyes him as he takes a drag of the vape pistoned between two long fingers.

He looks rather bored, considering the parties involved, but Lucifer can feel the menacing, violent edge to him. The blatant disregard for human life, the lack of even the most basic of morals, leaks into every facet of his being.

He is positively repulsive.

“This here is Valentino,” Alastor is saying, “Angel’s employer. You’ll now have the distinct pleasure of envying everyone who hasn’t met him.”

“What’d he say?” Valentino whispers to his companions.

“That over there is Velvette,” Alastor continues, pointing with the end of his cane toward the lone female sinner. She is wearing something Lucifer has to assume is meant to be fashionable as she types away on her phone. “She is the sinner equivalent of a participation trophy.”

“Fuck off, dipshit,” she shoots back, flipping him off. Her eyes never leave the screen. 

Alastor brings his cane back to center and places it in front of him. He rests his hands over the mic and inclines his chin toward the last of them.

“And lastly, we have Vox.”

“No commentary for him?” Lucifer notes.

“Not really.” Alastor shrugs. “I can safely say he consistently meets my expectations.”

Even without their prior chat, it wouldn't take a genius to deduce that there is history here, between Alastor and Vox. Alastor hadn't divulged any details when they'd spoken of the Overlords, and Lucifer hadn't asked, hadn't cared...

It's none of his business, after all.

“It's a little early for a social call," Lucifer says to the group. "You all suddenly take up an interest in redemption?”

“Ha! That’s not really their style, your Majesty,” Alastor answers in their stead. He explains, “Vox here has an unhealthy obsession with me. As he is powerless on his own, he’s brought along his lackeys.”

“Obsession? Ha!" Vox laughs riotously. “Fuck, you wish, you dated piece of shit. We're just here because we wanted to see if you’d keeled over yet after getting your ass handed to you by the First Man.”

Vox’s words leave Lucifer with the distinct impression of 'the lady doth protest too much.'

“A welfare check then?” Alastor queries. He gestures down at himself. “As you can see, I am quite well. Though I do so appreciate your concern." 

“You're well? I don’t buy that for a second,” Vox retorts. “There’s no way in Hell you recovered from that blow. You were practically slashed in half with an angelic weapon! We could see your ribs. Seriously, how the fuck are you still alive?"

"Spite, mostly," Alastor answers, oblivious to Lucifer's double take at the new tidbit of information. 

Lucifer hadn't witnessed Alastor's stand against Adam.

He’d been too preoccupied, tracking Charlie’s every movement, biding his time for the opening he needed to intervene without violating his contract with Heaven.

Watching it all unfold from the sidelines had been agony. By the time Adam had directly threatened his only child, Lucifer had ripped out his secondary feathers by the fistfuls. 

It was only in the aftermath of the failed extermination that Alastor’s absence had fully registered.

That Lucifer could still sense him, somewhere in Hell, was the only assurance he could give Charlie at the time to keep her grief banked. Eden had been restless as well, but back then, her interest in Alastor was more akin to flickering embers, and she'd allowed Lucifer to soothe her anxiety without too much trouble.

When Alastor had returned to the hotel, he'd seemed well enough, but he categorically did not want to discuss the details of his encounter with Adam. 

And that was pretty much the end of it. 

If he wanted to soothe a bruised ego in private, those in the hotel were merciful enough to let him do so. 

The injury Vox is alluding to, however, sounds much more grave than a simple battle wound. A near bisection with angelic weaponry wasn't something Alastor would've just been able to walk off.

Lucifer gives Alastor a side-eye that lingers.

Had Alastor been more wounded than any of them were led to believe?

“Despite your love of television, you've always had a penchant for theater, Vox,” Alastor says coolly. “I've survived worse from better. Now, if that's all, I'm afraid I will have to ask you all to leave the premises.”

“Or what?” Valentino drawls, his taunt spoken through puff of smoke. “You gonna escort us off the property, pequeño ciervo?”

“'Escort' is not the word I’d use.” Alastor’s smile sharpens. “But yes.”

“Ha!” Velvette must deem them finally worthy of her attention because she tucks her infernal smart device into her back pocket. “That's hilarious. Here you are, actin’ like tough shit after we all saw you run away with your tail between your legs. Why in Hell’s bloody hole would we be afraid of a littl' piss baby like yourself?”

Alastor has an impressive poker face because there’s not a single shift in his expression as the dark energy inside of him swells, coalescing into something vengeful. Lucifer's skin prickles at the sensation as the shadows weave in and out of Alastor's blackened soul.

On the surface, Alastor remains at ease.

“I won't be asking again,” he tells them.

“What you always seem to so conveniently forget is that I've already beaten you once before,” Vox sneers. Rivulets of red seep from the edges of his smile in vicious mockery. “And after that little pathetic display with Adam? Why, you're the definition of a has-been.” A pause as Vox sweeps his hands out to his sides, all but grandstanding as he says, “You, Alastor, are and always have been yesterday's news.”

Those are some fighting words if Lucifer’s ever heard them.

Alastor seems to think so, too, as his power rushes to his fingertips, chomping at the bit to do his bidding. The air crackles with static.

The smile Alastor wears cuts deep across his face like a gaping wound. His pupils flicker into dials.

“We’ll just see about that,” Alastor intones, half-transformed. Then, turning slightly, he says to Lucifer, “Why don't you check in on dear Charlie while I handle these trespassers?”

As lovely as some one-on-one time with Charlie without Alastor around to swoop in sounds, Lucifer finds himself hesitating. He knows Alastor can hold his own against these jokers but…

“Three against one isn’t exactly a fair fight,” Lucifer remarks.

Alastor stares at him with visibly fraying patience. “Why would that matter?”

Yeah, okay, fairness didn't really have a place here in Hell.

Still, it doesn't sit right with Lucifer to just leave. If Charlie found out he'd abandoned Alastor to fend for himself against a trio of Overlords while Lucifer fucked off to sing show tunes in the kitchen and make pancakes…

He can see Alastor’s hackles rise at his hesitation.

“I know how much you enjoy inserting yourself where you’re not wanted, your Majesty, but I do not require assistance taking out the trash.”

“Wha — “ Indignation flushes hotly through Lucifer's veins. “I just wanted to help, asshole.”

“Help?” hisses Alastor. “By that, do you mean you wanted to swoop in after I’ve already done all the legwork and play hero?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come now, Sire,” Alastor says. “Surely even you can hazard a guess.”

Lucifer snarls, “Is your ego really so fucking fragile that even the thought that I — “

“I would’ve brought my camera had I known we’d get front-row seats to such delicious foreplay.”

Valentino’s commentary causes Lucifer to stumble back from where he is, inches away from Alastor’s face. When had they gotten so close —

“Ha! As if,” Vox cackles sharply. “No way these two are fucking.”

Lucifer, nonsensically, takes offense to that. Was the idea truly so ludicrous that Alastor would give him the time of day? He was the King of Hell, damnit!

Not to mention, a fucking snack.

His ridiculous train of thought slams hard on the brakes when Alastor turns to Vox and asks, unexpectedly, “What would it matter if we were?”

Vox’s screen flares, the image distorting for a brief moment before returning. His smile is notably more strained. “You wouldn’t,” is what Vox says. “You’re not interested in — you said — oh, you’re just fucking with me!”

“Oh, darling,” Alastor says, his smile edged with malice. “We all know how much you wish that were true.”

Lucifer watches as Vox breaks down in real time, malfunctioning like a truly living, breathing machine.

He sees now that the self-possessed businessman Vox emulates is nothing more than an illusion held together by paper strings.

An illusion that doesn't stand a chance against the sharp instrument that is Alastor's cruelty. 

“Shacking up with the King as some sort of twisted power grab?” Vox says with palpable disgust. “That’s low even for you.”

As if there is no other reason Alastor could possibly be interested in Lucifer.

It's not personal, Lucifer reminds himself at the first taste of ash.

This is an attack on Alastor, not him.

“His Majesty must be even more desperate than I thought to crawl into bed with the likes of you. Pathetic.”

Oh, fuck that. 

Lucifer tolerates a lot, mostly out of apathy.

But he will not tolerate such an open display of disrespect. By a lowly sinner, no less.

(And if he sometimes makes allowances for Alastor in this regard, well, that’s for both Charlie’s and Eden's sake.)

Alastor exhales a long-suffering sigh.

Lucifer imagines Alastor has just about as much interest in appearing like he needs Lucifer’s help as he does in defending Lucifer’s honor.

And since Vox has now made it personal, Alastor must've realized that he’s lost any leverage he had to battle this out alone.

“Come on, then,” Alastor relents, tilting his head towards Lucifer. “Put on a good show, at least.”

Lucifer’s wings unfurl from the ether at once. When his horns pierce his forehead, the resulting pain is something he hardly registers. Flames snap and crackle above his head as Eden lovingly curls around his horns in a mimicry of a halo.

As Lucifer begins his descent of the staircase, his tail sweeps behind him in a menacing arch.  

The Vees all take a simultaneous step back as if suddenly realizing that yes, the meek, reclusive ruler they regard him as and the Fallen Angel, the Morning Star, the Devil, are, in fact, one and the same. 

“Pathetic, huh?” Lucifer says, continuing his slow descent. His voice is pitched lower, his baritone scraping the bottom of the Pit.

“Your Highness,” Vox tries, palms raising in an attempt to placate. “This is personal business between Alastor and I — “

“If that’s the case, why’d you bring backup?” questions Lucifer. “Could it be that you’re simply too pussy to fight him on your own?”

Vox splutters at that, “With all due respect — “

“Is that what you call showing up uninvited to my daughter’s hotel and threatening those under her purview?” Lucifer says. “Is that what you call insulting your King?”

Lucifer stops a few steps from the bottom, his gaze level with Vox.

“Because if that’s what you consider respect, then both you and it can fuck off.”

Vox braces for an attack, but Lucifer isn't as predictable as these sinners like to think he is. 

No one expects it then, when he appears in a shimmer of red in front of Valentino and sets him on fire.

“Val!” his colleagues call out in alarm, but Valentino is already reeling back, flapping his wings in an erratic attempt to extinguish the flames.

From one moment to the next, Lucifer is back at the top of the stairs, hovering in midair as he takes in the scene. He watches the trio of Overlords with satisfaction, scurrying like ants.

Then, he looks down at Alastor.

Alastor who is…

…looking at him with a peculiar expression.

If it were anyone else, Lucifer might even call it impressed.

After another moment, Alastor holds his cane out towards him.

Lucifer hesitates.

Then, slowly, tentatively, leaving himself time to course correct in case he's misunderstood the gesture, Lucifer drifts lower to perch himself, weightlessly, on the end of Alastor's cane.

He crouches down and meets Alastor’s gaze.

“Very nice, my liege.”

Lucifer’s plumage vibrates, feathers fluttering as he quite literally preens at the praise.

Alastor laughs at the display, deeply amused, and it's not a mocking laugh this time, not really.

In his periphery, he can see the Vees still scrambling to put out the residual flames on Valentino's antennas. 

“And here I thought you were just blowing smoke,” Alastor says.

Lucifer shrugs. “What can I say,” he replies, “I lava good fight.”

Alastor hums. The tilt of his head is almost coy. “While we're here, I have a burning question for you.”

Lucifer grins. “Fire away!”

“If you were to summarize this encounter, would you say our little moth friend flew a little too close to the flames?”

“Hm. A bit of a hot take, but I'll allow it.”

“Ah, you're a de-light as always, Sire.”

Lucifer covers his mouth with one hand to muffle his giggles, but they spill into his palm and through his fingers. The puns are so lame, but they’re exchanging them as easily as they exchange barbs, and it feels… nice.

Nice enough to distract him from the sudden barrage of high-voltage cables.

Not Alastor though, his tendrils are already erupting from the ground, shielding them both from what was sure to have been a nasty little shock.

Lucifer isn’t sure what he’s more taken aback by.

Vox’s audacity or Alastor protecting him.

His eyes are hot, practically burning as he cuts his gaze to Vox. “He really was the fastest one, huh?”

“Mm,” Alastor hums, turning his sights back to the group. “To his parents’ dismay, I’m sure. Oh, how much nicer the world would’ve been had he been a blowjob instead.”

Vox shrieks and launches another attack, but Lucifer just laughs and laughs, because they really are just fucking with them at this point.

The Vees are outmatched, and yet, they still stand before the Radio Demon and the literal Devil, in various degrees of seething. Even Valentino, who is looking a bit on the crispy side, is positioned to fight. It would take so little of Lucifer and Alastor’s combined strength to send their collective consciousness back to the Pit.

If they were smart, they'd retreat and forgo the regeneration process altogether but alas… this was the Pride Ring for a reason.

“What say you, your Majesty?” Alastor queries. “Up for a bout of morning calisthenics?”

Lucifer grins. His vision bleeds red. 

“Let’s do it,” he says.

Hours later, when he's alone with his ducks, Lucifer retrieves his paintbrush to pick back up from where he’d left off. 

He purposely avoids Eden’s knowing gaze the entire time. 

Chapter Text

With night comes disquietude; a bout of restlessness that elicits a rhythmic bounce of his knee. 

Lucifer tinkers away, but as his focus fractures and he begins to make mistakes, he's forced to give up the task. 

He stands from his workbench and extends his arms high above his head, stretching tall to dislodge the kinks in his muscles that protest his poor posture. 

It wasn't the first time he'd unwittingly stayed hunched over in a singular position for hours on end, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Willed into existence before the implementation of the twenty-four-hour day, Lucifer feels only partially responsible for his terrible time management. 

It's late enough in the evening that crawling into bed is a viable option. Doing so holds little appeal, however, when he's jittery like this. 

With a sigh, he plucks his hat from his nightstand, taking a peacefully sleeping Eden with him to roam the halls. Downstairs, the lights of the lobby are dimmed, and the space is blessedly empty save a sinner passed out in a booth and the grumpy bartender, who doesn't want anything from him, least of all conversation.

It's perfect, he thinks as he sits at one of the tables, this form of parallel play where he can simply exist in the sphere of others without being perceived. 

But it's also strange to him that he's fallen so suddenly into this headspace, one that Lucifer can identify as a precursor to his bouts of melancholy. He feels like it snuck up on him this time. Even now, staring at his glass, Lucifer is unable to pinpoint what has him so out of sorts. 

Immediately following the earlier confrontation with the Vees, he'd felt good. 

Better than he had in a while, in fact. 

It'd been cathartic almost, laying waste to some of the most depraved sinners he'd ever had the misfortune of meeting (and that was saying something). 

Lucifer had gotten the opportunity to play around with some of his shapeshifting abilities, utilizing Alastor's tentacles as a launch pad as Alastor himself engaged the Vees in a rather violent game of twister. They'd been able to fluidly build off one another's attacks for maximum mayhem. 

Lucifer had to give credit where credit was due, Alastor was an absolute force to be reckoned with in a fight. Devastating and savage in a way that was nearly breathtaking. 

It'd been a unique experience, fighting alongside someone who seemed to know, intrinsically, his next move. 

It'd been a long time since he’d felt understood in such a way, seen so clearly that words were unnecessary. But now that the moment was gone, Lucifer was left feeling incredibly empty. 

He takes a generous swig of his drink to soothe the glass bubble of anxiety that sits at the back of his throat and keep himself from spiraling. 

He spirals his ring instead, around his finger over and over again, to give his hands something to do. 

As if on cue, that familiar static-laden voice croons, “My, my, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?” 

Even though his wings are tucked away, Lucifer can feel them flutter.

He is spared his shame only because Alastor cannot see the involuntary display.

Lucifer knows by now that this playful tone Alastor occasionally adopts is not meant for him.  

He schools his expression as Alastor pulls out the chair opposite him and places a tumbler of amber liquid on the table. 

He doesn't need to see Eden to know that she is awake as he can feel the vibrations of her excitement.

He doesn't quite have the energy to keep them separated, not tonight, so he lets the scene unfold with an air of resignation. 

When Alastor reaches out towards him, Lucifer can feel the subsequent loss of Eden's weight.

Alastor retracts his arm a moment later and lifts the snake pooled in his palm up to his face. 

“Good evening, mon serpent."

The end of Eden's tail twitches back and forth like a rattlesnake. If she were a cat, she'd almost certainly be purring. 

It's mortifying, Lucifer thinks, how desperate she is for a measly scrap of Alastor’s attention. 

If only the floor would crack open and swallow him whole. It'd been known to do that on occasion (rest in pieces, boar demon he already forgot the name of) but Lucifer has never been quite that lucky. 

Can you not? he tries to communicate to Eden instead, hoping she's tuned in with him enough to sense his mounting displeasure. 

It's pointless, of course. She's far too enraptured with her captor to pay him any mind. 

“You were quite the sight to behold today, my dear,” Alastor coos at her. He runs a gloved finger over her head, smoothing the scales, gentle in a way he never is. “Downright ferocious."

Lucifer averts his gaze. It's odd, feeling like he's intruding here, a third wheel to the affection he tells himself he doesn't want or need. 

He's certainly not jealous of what is essentially an extension of himself. 

That would be preposterous, ha ha. 

Just… so pathetic…

He looks over again in time to watch Alastor raise Eden to his opposite shoulder, his hand lifting like an elevator platform. 

Eden accepts the gracious offer to perch. 

Unfurling, she climbs past his collarbone to loop around his neck. Settling, she nuzzles the edge of his jaw in thanks, reveling in the warmth, the contact. 

Lucifer’s chest aches at the sight, tender like a bruise. 

“It's weird,” he says into his drink. “You hate when others touch you, but you don't seem to mind when she does.” 

Lucifer can feel the weight of Alastor's stare on his cheek. There's a pause. When Alastor speaks again, it's slowly, as if he's choosing his words with care. “I don't mind her touch, no. It is offered freely without expectation,” he says. “Besides, she's harmless.” 

To whom, Lucifer almost asks him. 

He suppresses the urge. He doesn't need to draw attention to the fact that he notices these kinds of things about Alastor, like his aversion to touch. He doesn't want Alastor to know that he occupies his thoughts at all outside of these interactions. 

Luckily, Alastor doesn't press. He reclines in his seat instead, propping a leg over the opposite knee. He’s lacking his usual tension, his lean body composed of softer shapes. 

“You seem like you’re in a good mood,” Lucifer observes aloud. 

“Oh, I'm fantastic," Alastor says with a flourish. His grin is blinding. “TV is dead! For the next week, that is.”

“With how torn apart they are, maybe even longer than that,” Lucifer muses. “I didn't even know you could pull someone's spine out through their mouth like that.”

“I am nothing if not creative,” Alastor preens. “But please, do go on about how impressed you are by my prowess on the battlefield.”

Lucifer rolls his eyes so hard, he can practically see Heaven. “Don't let it go to your head. Just saying, you're not too shabby, all things considered.”

“Whatever do you mean by that?” Alastor inquires with mock offense. “I‘ll have you know, I'm in terrific fighting shape.”

Even without looking, Lucifer knows that to be true. The slim line of his body that tapers at the waist, his slender limbs, quick and devastating like wiry pockets of lightning, his legs that go on for miles... 

Alastor's prey-coded appearance is all so terribly deceiving. 

"Are you always so chipper after a good massacre?” Lucifer asks, sidestepping the question with one of his own. 

“Yes," Alastor says. “Though I do wish Charlie would reconsider our penance. A mandatory de-escalation seminar is cruel and unusual punishment, even by my standards! Our dear daughter sure knows how to work herself into a tizzy.” 

“My,” Lucifer grumbles for posterity. 

And fair enough, Lucifer isn't particularly looking forward to that class either, but Charlie was within her right as hotel owner to make an example out of them. 

Besides, their punishment was more of a slap on the wrist than anything else. Lucifer could tell by the literal sparkles in her eyes how pleased Charlie was that they'd teamed up to accomplish something. 

Even if that something was murder. 

Lucifer drums his fingers on the table to the beat of a jazzy number, filtering through Alastor's mic. 

He considers just how violent Alastor had been during the altercation with the Vees. Merciless to all, but particularly to Vox. 

When he'd first stumbled upon the scene, Lucifer had briefly wondered if the two Overlords were jilted ex-lovers. 

But after watching them interact, Lucifer can't say in good faith that he saw anything even resembling love between them.  

Infatuation, sure — obsession, dangerous and rotten to the core (and seemingly one-sided).

It isn’t his business, it isn’t, but — 

“So… why does Vox hate you so much?”

Lucifer doesn’t know if it's Alastor's good mood or the rye Alastor leisurely sips but, to Lucifer’s surprise, Alastor doesn't brush him off. 

Instead, he replies, “Because I said the one thing a privileged white man simply cannot stand. Especially from someone like me.”

Lucifer blinks. “Which is?”

Scarlet strands cascade over Alastor's brow with the incline of his chin. 

He meets Lucifer’s gaze.

“No," he answers. 

Silence stretches between them as Lucifer considers the weight of that. He opens his mouth to reply, but no words are forthcoming. 

An elegant brow curves high on Alastor’s forehead. “You’re surprised,” he observes aloud. 

“Uh, yeah,” Lucifer finally manages. He takes off his hat to place it on the table then uses the same hand to scratch the back of his head, feeling terribly out of his depth. “Sorry, it’s just… it’s all so wild to me. Angels, we… things like race and gender, that wasn’t even a consideration for us. It was all so fluid. Inconsequential.”

Alastor hums. “Well, I suppose you have your creator to thank for that. They started it, no? Created the first woman to serve the first man, setting the tone for one to be superior over the other.”

Alastor doesn’t say her name, but he doesn’t need to. It hurts all the same. 

Lilith had the deck stacked against her since the beginning. Expected to kneel to the likes of Adam.

And so she fled only to find comfort in Lucifer and his lofty dreams.

And she was promptly punished for it.

Determined to make the best out of the shitty cards she’d been dealt, she'd ruled over Hell with a resilience Lucifer both loved and envied. 

He doesn’t realize he’s fidgeting with his ring again until Alastor says, “You still wear your ring.”

The remark is more subdued than Alastor's usual directness; an invitation to speak about Hell’s absent Queen rather than a demand. It's a topic Lucifer always dutifully avoids, especially in the company of sinners, but he supposes Alastor's not the only one softened by his choice of drink tonight. 

“Uh, yeah… it’s a habit, I guess. I’ve worn it as long as I’ve had this form. It’d be almost weirder to be without it, I think...”

It’s more than that, of course, but Lucifer doesn’t need to go into excruciating detail about how the symbol of better times tethers him. 

There’d been so many changes lately — the indefinite pause on exterminations, the move to the hotel, the rekindling relationship with his daughter, the constant barrage and exposure to sinners — that the ring had become a sort of anchor for him; a focal point to ground him with the reminder that he was, at one point, lovable. 

That the ring gave him the slim hope that maybe he could be again, one day. 

“Do you expect the Queen to return?”

Lucifer decides he no longer wants to talk about this with Alastor. 

Which is why he surprises himself when he answers, eyes still on his ring, “One day, I think. Not to me, but to Hell.”

He regrets the over-share instantly. He can almost hear his words being tucked away in the chamber of Alastor's metaphorical gun — ammo for later use. 

A quiet befalls them, and Lucifer recognizes it not as the companionable silence they occasionally find themselves in, but the kind that compels.  

It is a silence that leaves him bereft, feeling inadequate and woefully lacking in the nuances of conversation and connection.

It's the one that Lucifer's brain cannot leave alone. 

And the worst part is that it's all in his head because Alastor sits there seemingly unbothered, humming over the rim of his drink, perfectly content to laze in it. 

Yet, words still rise in Lucifer's throat like bile, desperate to fill the void only he notices. 

“I tried to be a good husband,” he tells Alastor in a bid to explain himself, despite not being asked to. “For so long, we only had each other, you know. We tried to build a good life here, but we were at odds when it came to sinners. I thought... she'd be happy if I gave her the reigns to rule Hell as she pleased. It's not like I wanted anything to do with it, anyway. For a long time, that was enough... but Lily…” he sucks his teeth in a wince, “she was so angry. She just couldn’t let it go, what Heaven did to us. One day, she started talking about a legitimate uprising...”

He hates it so much that he is unable to stop this stream of consciousness now that he's started. 

And to say such things to a sinner who's already proven himself willing to exploit a moment of weakness (as evidenced by his deal with Charlie, and oh boy, wasn’t that ensuing argument devastating to the hotel infrastructure).  

But as he looks over at Alastor and meets his quiet, attentive gaze, Lucifer is compelled to continue. “I tried to talk her out of it. We fought about it all the time. I didn’t want her to get hurt, of course, but also… I feel like revenge never works out how someone thinks it will. I used to see it all the time when I was more... active in Hell. Sinners who enacted vengeance after feeling wronged only to realize that it didn't change anything. In the aftermath of it all, they seemed like they were... I don't know, grieving? Because all that was left now was to process what'd happened to them, and... that's the hardest part." He shrugs miserably. "Instigating a war against Heaven won’t change anything. People will get hurt. And the pain from our fall will remain. I told Lilith as much… and so, she left.”

Somehow, through all of that, the chatterbox that is the Radio Demon, the same sinner who loved the sound of his own voice, remained silent. 

It’s only when Lucifer truly can’t make this any worse that Alastor finally offers him the mercy of saying something.

“Quite insightful, your Majesty, but ultimately subjective and, therefore, meaningless.” 

Lucifer huffs a self-deprecating laugh. Yeah, that... that's about what he'd expected.

God, he's such a dumbass. 

“I’ve enacted revenge plenty of times,” Alastor continues, “and I’ve been left quite satisfied every time.”

“Oh yeah?” Lucifer says but he's only partly paying attention now, too busy patching up his walls as he takes a mental step back from the conversation. “You strike me as the type to have a list.”

Alastor tips his head. Eden remains cozied up around his neck like a scarf. “Guilty.” 

“Got much left to go?”

Alastor finishes off his drink. Behind him, his shadow skitters along the wall. “Just one,” he says with a low burst of static. “Despite my wealth of connections, they've evaded a second, more permanent death. But I've got nothing but time.” 

Lucifer's attention refocuses on the thread of information. “Are you sure they're here?” 

“Oh, yes, without a doubt.” 

Before Lucifer can inquire any further, Alastor turns to him. His smile is filled with far too many teeth.

“But that's a story for another time. I'm in a good mood, after all,” Alastor says. “Let's not ruin it.” 

Lucifer waves him off. “Yeah, alright, put the radio dials away. I hear you, loud and clear.”  

Alastor's smile sharpens. “Lovely.” 

Lucifer’s gaze is drawn to Alastor's shadow again, looming on the wall behind him. Sinners often spawned in Hell with oddities and powers that Lucifer didn't really care to learn more about, but he'd be lying if he said Alastor's shadow didn't intrigue him. It doesn't really ever interact with him, Lucifer notices, but it's always lingering; an eldritch horror that haunts both hotel and hotelier. 

He wants to ask about it, but Lucifer has the distinct feeling that Alastor is done with storytime.

Fair enough, Lucifer's tapped out as well, having met his humiliation quota for the evening.

He is very much ready for bed. 

“Come on, Eden,” Lucifer beckons. He's tempted to sag in relief when she doesn't put up a fight.

She's apparently too pleased to argue, having gotten her way. 

She hisses and flicks her tongue as Alastor reaches out towards her. “Your ride, my dear.”

Lucifer watches with tired eyes as Alastor speaks to her in quiet tones. Like this, relaxed again and adorned with a small smile, Lucifer thinks that Alastor’s antlers are kind of endearing. He wonders if the resulting damage to Pentagram City would be worth it were he to hang an ornament on one. 

Alastor's ears twitch as if he can hear his thoughts. Lucifer looks away guiltily. 

“Sweet dreams, mon serpent,” Alastor says with one last boop. Then, he extends his hand out toward Lucifer’s hat on the table. 

Eden slithers around the base of it with ease, her metaphorical cup overflowing. She falls into stasis moments after she's settled. 

With that, Lucifer goes to stand. 

Alastor waves a hand before he can.

A tea set, complete with dainty cups, creamer, and a kettle, appears on the table. A plate of cookies as well. Steam wafts off their surface as if they'd just been pulled from the oven.  

“A bedtime snack before you go,” Alastor explains in a way that doesn't explain anything at all. 

Nonplussed by the gesture, Lucifer settles again into his seat.

He notices a little shadow puppet, sitting by Alastor's elbow, nibbling on a cookie. 

It's… very creepy.

To the extent that it crosses right over into kinda cute territory...

Hm. Lucifer won't be looking into that any further. 

“May I interest you in a lovely piece of gossip I acquired?” Alastor queries with a grin. 

Lucifer raises a brow. “Uh, sure."

Pleased, Alastor dives right in. “Well, there I was, minding my own business — “ 

“Sure you were.” 

“ — and I overheard a conversation regarding the newest Overlord.” 

Alastor leans towards him then, into his orbit, and Lucifer freezes in place when Alastor’s hand curls around his shoulder to pull him in close enough to whisper.

It's not really necessary; there's no one else here but the dozing sinner and half-drunk bartender. He supposes he can't blame Alastor for being cautious, though. 

Still, Lucifer doesn't know what to do with Alastor's hand on him in a way that can't be categorized as an attack.

It's jarring. 

“Apparently, this new Overlord has been attempting to court dear Zestial.”

Lucifer is pulled from his thoughts by what turns out to be a juicy piece of gossip, indeed. “Making an enemy out of Carmilla so soon?” Lucifer murmurs. “That’s a bold strategy.”

“Quite,” Alastor says. “On a completely unrelated note, Carmilla keeps forgetting to send her an invitation to our meetings.” 

Lucifer laughs. “That sounds like Carmilla.”

He takes a sip of his tea, something herbal and calming, warm like Alastor's body heat. Barring a fight, they're as close as they've ever been, and Alastor is… allowing it? Instigating it, even? What is happen — 

A small commotion at the bar draws their attention.

Angel has evidently arrived from his night shift and is now all loose gangly limbs, sprawled out over the bar top. Husk is muttering something to him with a look of fond exasperation. 

The hand at his shoulder withdraws. 

Lucifer tells himself he doesn't miss it. 

“I suppose I should retire as well,” Alastor says easily, “lest I be exposed to their nauseating pining.”

"Uh, yeah, I guess," Lucifer says, feeling disoriented. Get a grip. "I still think they're kinda cute.”

“Yes, but as we've already determined, you are quite hopeless, hm?”

“Oh, shut up.” Lucifer eyes them. Threads of longing and jealousy twist uncomfortably in his gut. “They’re totally gonna get together.”

Alastor scoffs. “I stand by my earlier assertion that Husker won’t allow it.”

Lucifer slides his gaze to him. “Wanna bet?”

Now, that gets Alastor’s attention. His eyes brighten with mischievous glee. “You didn’t strike me as a betting man, your Highness. Though, I suppose you are known for taking a gamble or two. Which, speaking of, seems to be working out splendidly for you.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch, I swear to God,” Lucifer grumbles. “That’s all you ever do."

“I also take care of the hotel!” Alastor says from nearly laughing lips. “And very well. I bet you two souls that they will not ‘get together,’ as you so eloquently put it, come this time next month.”

Lucifer promptly spits out his tea.

Alastor’s eye twitches in disapproval. 

“Souls?” Lucifer splutters. “Are you insane? Don't answer that.” He wheezes, trying to catch his breath. “Here, I was thinking like, a day of chores or, I don't know, Monopoly money?!”

“We have Monopoly down here?”

“It's Hell, Alastor. Of course, we have Monopoly.”

Alastor scowls, mumbling, “Well, that’s a lot less fun. But alright. A day of chores it is.”

Lucifer is still recovering from his coughing fit.

Fucking psychopaths, waging souls on such frivolous bets. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with Alastor — and more importantly, what the fuck is wrong with him that he’s still sitting here, indulging this lunatic?

“I'm going to bed,” Lucifer says, standing. 

Alastor tips his head in farewell, but his face is still one of genuine amusement. The thought passes through Lucifer's mind before he can stop it that Alastor is actually quite stunning like this, smiling and flushed and a bit washed in gold. 

Lucifer can hardly stand it.

“Goodnight, my liege," Lucifer hears Alastor say as he disappears in a shimmering swirl of red without so much as a parting word. 

Chapter Text

There was a time — long before time was a unit of measurement at all — when Lucifer spent his days weaving vast nebulas into existence. 

The endless sky served as his blank canvas, and his fingertips a paintbrush, tracing spiraling constellations and glittering galaxies. 

The act of creation itself was sublime, rewarding in its own right, but Lucifer would argue that he found an even greater joy in sharing his creations with another. It was exhilarating in the beginning, to present his latest innovation to his brothers and sisters. His feathers would vibrate in his excitement as he held his breath, hoping beyond hope that they, too, would see the beauty of it all. 

More often than not, however, his designs had been deemed childish, redundant, or unnecessary.

He'd return, crestfallen, to the drawing board, determined to prove his worth, to think bigger, grander. He'd tell himself that their dismissal didn't hurt and tried not to ruminate on why even amongst angels and so much Goddamn goodness, he was so fucking lonely.

He didn't even know why he felt like an outsider among his flock; only knew by the ache in his chest, tender with rejection, that he was. 

And still, he'd find himself time and time again, reaching out for a connection that never came.

Looking back, Lucifer realizes that his exile started long before his Fall.

Being God's Favorite had put a target on his back among his brethren and instilled in him impossible expectations.

Stupid, foolish little angel that he was, he hadn't realized at the time that he was a star himself, destined to inevitably burn himself out.

A social outcast, Lucifer spent time with his creations instead, allowing them to fill the void in his unending existence — one that went on much of the same way until the day his Creator chose a planet that orbited one of Lucifer's many stars to plant the very first garden. 

Eden.

Lucifer sits there now, in the memory of Eden, a dreamscape embellished with lunar valleys and rolling hills. The pain is more tolerable here in this little sanctuary of paper flowers, in this illusion that he can manipulate and bend to his will.

(Never enough to change the outcome though; the consequences of his pride will always remain, carved into stone and written in ink, a story of temptation as old as time).

It’s another bad day — or bad week, maybe. Time moves differently here in the recesses of his soul, so he's not entirely sure. He tells himself he should visit the waking world soon, even if it's just to check in and make sure Charlie doesn't need anything from him.

He would, too, if only he could muster the mental energy to move, to force himself out of his own paralysis to do anything at all. 

He sits there rooted instead, propped against the trunk of a magnolia tree. 

In a daze, he watches from a distance as his past self worries over an overgrown berry patch. His wings flutter, feathers puffed up in his needless excitability, flustered to the point of absurdity over something that won't really matter in the end. He has an ethereal glow to him, the bringer of dawn, of humanity's ruin, though he doesn't know it yet. 

Lucifer gazes upon his form that once was, a subdued yearning in his heart for his flawless wings, the color of freshly fallen snow, long before they were wretched from his joints and torn through muscle and sinew, before they grew back coated in crimson. The smile on the oblivious angel's face is far too trusting, ready at a moment's notice to welcome another into his circle — anyone, please — and offer them a lifetime of unconditional love before he learned that such a thing could even have conditions. 

Fierce protectiveness and unrelenting helplessness pluck at Lucifer's heartstrings. 

Legs drawn to his chest, chin propped on his knees, Lucifer watches on with a rueful smile.

When a presence forms in his peripheral, he doesn't need to look over to know who has joined him.

He already knows the shape of this ghost. 

“Luci,” comes the soft greeting.

Lucifer turns to smile up at her, cheek squishing against his knee. 

“Hey, Lily,” he says.

She returns his smile, all perfect white teeth behind tastefully stained lips. Her hair is a waterfall of luminescent gold, tumbling over her rounded shoulders. Even her dress is perfect, sewn from shimmering hues of dark eminence. It pools onto the grass like a violet bloodstain when she settles beside him.  

“Bad day?”

She's close enough that he can feel the body heat that's not really there. He leans into it all the same.

“Yeah,” he says. “Real bad.”

Sighing, she reaches out to him. Her long fingers push at the disheveled strands of hair framing his face. She tucks them behind a pointed ear. “Have you been eating? You look positively gaunt.”

He huffs and gives her a wry smile for her troubles. She can't help but worry, he knows, not after he'd all but forced her into the role of his caretaker. He likes to believe that he's different from his Creator, from Adam but, in moments like these, he's not so sure.

He'd treated her with respect, as his equal, yes, but the shadows of his mind dimmed her light all the same.

“You know I don’t need to eat,” Lucifer deflects.

“And you know you feel better when you do.”

Well, that’s the problem now, isn’t it.

When he’s in this headspace, he doesn't necessarily want to feel better.

He doesn't want to feel anything.

But it sounds pitiful to say out loud, even if the idea of fading into nothingness has some appeal.

“Luci,” she chides gently as if he'd voiced his thoughts aloud. 

Guilt flows through him, murmuring like a babbling brook. "I'll be okay,” he assures her.

He is grateful when his younger self derails their conversation by drawing their attention over to the pond with his wild gesticulation.

The smile that shapes Lilith’s lips is tender, packaged beautifully in precious nostalgia, as she watches his former self talk animatedly to a pair of incredibly nonplussed swans.

Lucifer traces the softened edge of her expression with his gaze. “You loved him so much,” he observes quietly.

“Yes,” Lilith answers easily, adoringly. “He was easy to love.”

Lucifer's breath catches in his throat. 

Lilith turns to him at once. “I'm sorry,” she says, sincere. “I didn't mean that you — “

“I know what you meant, Lily,” he says, but his voice is strained. Her words are like a weight on his chest, pressing down on his lungs and bruising his whole heart. It renders him almost breathless.

The truth of the matter is that he was easy for her to love. Soft, respectful, exuberant, painfully sweet and so, so desperate for companionship he was willing to do and say anything to keep her close.

He knows his edges are jagged now, his beauty is tainted, his joy scorned and picked apart. The Fall alongside a bottomless well of torment and trauma has made him a difficult being to tolerate, nevermind love.

To this day, he doesn’t blame Lilith for how their marriage fell apart. In sickness and in health, yes, but Lucifer also knows he's not the same being she’d made that vow to once upon a time. Their difference in opinion regarding an Unholy War was simply the cast stone that sent their glass house crashing down around them. 

His lashes are wet now, his vision line blurry as Lilith moves him to rest his head in her lap. Her long fingers sink into his hair, tending to the knots.

As Lucifer gathers his bearings, they watch the young angel across the way in silence. The dappled sunlight shifts over them when a breeze whispers through the leaves above them. 

“Charlie misses you,” he whispers at last. “Will you be coming back soon?”

Lilith hums, but it's nothing more than an acknowledgment of his question. She can’t actually answer him, because no matter how convincing, she remains a figment of his imagination, a beautiful wraith built in her image. Thus, she is only equipped with the same knowledge as him. 

And to this day, almost a decade later, Lucifer has no idea where she is or if she’s coming back.

“I miss you, too,” Lucifer confesses quietly. “I know our marriage is over, but you were my person for centuries. A part of me will always love you. I… Lily, I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better husband to you."

A soft sigh is his answer. Her hand gentles in his hair.

Worlds away, there is a rattling sound.

“My sweet Luci,” she croons, her voice tinged with concern. “You must be careful, dearest. You’re slipping.”

Lucifer shouldn’t be surprised by her words, sudden as they seem. She always had a knack for seeing the bigger picture.

“I…” He closes his eyes. “I don’t know if I can stop it..." 

Even as he says it, he can feel her touch fading into the wind. 

Another sound, sharp and impatient, forces his eyes back open.

He catches the gaze of his angelic counterpart, expression forlorn as he, too, disappears.  

The grass beneath Lucifer turns soft and yielding; the sky darkens. He blinks again, and he's back in his bed, adorned in rumpled pajamas. His wings are draped haphazardly over the sheets, patchy in the places where he’d plucked them to soothe his inner turmoil. 

He's operating at a lag, consciousness still rent in two, but even so, he can sense the intruder. 

Shadows slither from the corners of his room to coalesce before him, preceding Alastor's appearance. 

Lucifer turns his face into the pillow and groans. “Ugh, fuck me,” he mutters into the fabric.

He can hear the scowl in Alastor's response, “A simple hello would suffice, my liege." 

“People who barge into other’s rooms unannounced don't get a hello.” Lucifer’s voice is hoarse from disuse, but his sass comes through well enough. 

“In my defense,” Alastor counters, “I did knock. Several times, in fact. As did Charlie. Even Vaggie has stopped by a few times.”

Lucifer peeks one eye open at that. “How long has it been?” he asks quietly.

“Six weeks." 

Lucifer jolts halfway out of bed, the abrupt movement sending a flurry of loose feathers scattering. Alastor plucks one out of the air and appraises it between two fingers. 

“You're lying,” Lucifer says but he's pleading, because no, there's no way he'd abandoned his daughter again for weeks on end without a word, no way he'd submerged himself in his soul that long without coming up for air, no way —

“Indeed, I am!” Alastor’s cheerful voice cuts through his growing panic. He sets the feather down on the nightstand. “It's been six days.”

“Oh, you absolute dick — “ Lucifer starts but his indignation is tampered by his utter relief. He sinks back into the mattress and exhales a deep, stuttering breath. 

"Why, you should be thanking me!" Alastor says. "If not for me promising to come check on you, dear Charlie would've kicked down the door by now. I could only assuage her concerns for your well-being for so long, after all."

The lingering embers of Lucifer's irritation are snuffed out at once. It may not have been six weeks, but knowing he'd caused his daughter distress, that he'd distracted her from her mission with his crippling self-loathing, makes him want to fold up on himself. 

“And you volunteered to come check on me because…?” 

Alastor takes to examining his claws, his air one of nonchalance. "Charlie is an extraordinary young lady carrying the weight of an enterprise. With my invaluable help, of course.” His gaze slides to him, pinning him with a knowing look. “Children do not need to take on the emotional burden of their parents.”

Oh, well, Lucifer hates that.

Specifically hates how genuine Alastor sounds, like he actually cares for Charlie. That's somehow worse than the times he simply flaunts their relationship in his face for shits and giggles. Lucifer wants to see the psychopath, the unforgiving, power-hungry Overlord. He doesn't want a deeper look into the sinner who indulges in his daughter’s dreams and certainly not at the once-human who coos so sweetly at Eden.

As soon as the thought passes, he notices Alastor’s gaze, subtly surveying the room. 

“She…” Lucifer says, reading the silent question in those scarlet eyes. “I don't have the energy right now for her to borrow from.”

Lucifer hardly even has the energy to maintain his current glamour, but Alastor doesn't need to know all that.

Without a preamble, Alastor conjures a chair with a snap of his fingers.

Lucifer realizes with equal parts dread and relief that he means to stay.

“Why are you here?”

“I told you already,” Alastor replies, taking his seat. “Charlie has other duties that require — “

“At the hotel, I mean.”

“Oh, that! For the entertainment, of course!”

It's his standard response, but Lucifer's unwilling to let it go so easily this time. 

“We both know you have ulterior motives,” Lucifer says.

“It's Hell, your Majesty," Alastor reminds him. "The mosquitos have ulterior motives.”

"Be that as it may, if you hurt Charlie, I swear, Alastor, I'll — ”

“If you intend to subject me to the platonic shovel talk for the umpteenth time, your Grace, please allow me the courtesy of the abridged version.”

The temperature in the room rises several degrees. “Al.”

“Oh, come now, I have no intention of hurting Charlie!” Alastor dismisses his concerns with a lackadaisical wave. “Why, she's like a daughter to me!”

“She's not — “

“Hush now, before you strain yourself trying to intimidate me. You've had your fun, ruminating on your misfortune. Now it's time to seize the day with a smile. You know, you're never fully dressed without one!"

Consider Lucifer perpetually underdressed then, he thinks petulantly.

He keeps the thoughts to himself, however, embarrassed enough as is in his current state. 

He becomes aware, rather abruptly, of how awful he must look. His wings self-consciously curl inward, shielding himself from Alastor's discerning gaze.

“My, aren't you a mess," Alastor tuts anyway. "Let's get you in a state more fitting of your station, shall we?"

Lucifer startles at the unexpected touch, gentle but insistent, when Alastor draws one of his wings onto his lap. 

Lucifer can't even form the words to protest, utterly gobsmacked by Alastor’s audacity to handle him in this way. There’s no possible way Alastor understands the sheer intimacy of touching an angel’s wings; he can’t possibly know that he’s only the third living creature to do so since his Fall, preceded only by his ex-wife and Charlie.

Though sorely tempted, Lucifer doesn’t tear the appendage from his grip, doesn’t punish him for his insolence.

No, he's much too touch-starved to do anything at all, but remain silent and endure.

His eyes grow hot.

“What — “ He stops and takes a moment to smooth out the quaver of his voice. "What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Alastor parries. “Your wings are in dire need of maintenance, and I so happen to know a thing or two about proper wing care.”

“You… you do?”

“Yes.” Alastor does not explain any further. “Now, may I proceed?”

Lucifer opens his mouth.

Then, closes it again.

His eyes warm further in his frustration, unable to decide whether he wants Alastor to stay or go. One thing's for sure, he certainly is not going to sit here and tear up over the gentle way Alastor cradles his feathers.

“Okay,” he mumbles.

He releases the tension of his wing, allowing it to settle more loosely over Alastor’s lap. To save face, he amends, “No funny business though, or I’ll throw you out the window.”

Alastor pats his wing. “Yes, I know. Rest assured that I am terrified of all four feet of you, my liege. Now, be a dear and let me work. The sooner you are back to your insufferable self, the sooner the rest of the hotel can return to the status quo."

"Careful, Al. It almost sounds like you missed me."

It's the second time in as many minutes that Lucifer has called him that.

Neither of them comment on it. 

"Hardly," Alastor scoffs. "But your despondent mood is inconvenient at best. I had thought you'd be quite joyous, being reunited with your daughter after so many years."

"It's not about that," Lucifer argues as Alastor begins to straighten out his mangled feathers. "I am beside myself that she's given me another chance to be a part of her life, I am... but I also know that I don't deserve it. I'm the reason that she had to fight Adam in the first place, that she had to even defend this hotel and her friends. If I didn't agree to —  I could've lost h — “

“Miss Charlie is alive and well," Alastor smoothly interrupts. "She would be even better if her father was present to support her. Why ever you would spiral over something that did not come to pass is beyond me.“

“You wouldn't understand.”

“Of course. You believe that because I have not ejaculated into a fertile womb and have no children of my own that I am incapable of — ”

“For fuck's sake, Alastor, she's my daughter," Lucifer hisses with his forked tongue. “It's not the same, knowing your flesh and blood is out there in danger, knowing you could lose them at any moment and being so fucking useless that — ”

Lucifer stumbles over his words. His world spins, and he attempts to smother his panic before it can consume him. 

Alastor remains silent all the while. He doesn't seem to enjoy kicking a man when he's down. It's probably boring for him, Lucifer thinks, once the thrill of a worthy opponent is gone. 

Except those same hands that dabble in casual cruelty are profoundly gentle carding through his plumage. 

Lucifer's focus narrows in on the soothing touch until he no longer feels like he's at risk of hyperventilating. 

It's only when he's calmed that Alastor speaks again.

“I cannot empathize as a parent, no, but I know the fear of losing a loved one quite intimately,” he says sternly. Then, softer, as if reminiscing, he says, “I was raised with strong family values. The women in my family all but ensured it. My mother was always hopeful that I’d find a nice dame to settle down with one day to start a family of my own. It was a terribly kept secret of hers that she wished for a grandchild or two to dote on.”

Not for the first time in this exchange, Lucifer finds himself speechless.

Alastor had been particularly tight-lipped when it came to his time on Earth. To be given a glimpse into his life, his family...

“What,” Alastor drawls, amused at the surprise he must find on his face, “you think because I’ve indulged in the occasional cannibalistic murder spree that I am incapable of caring for those dear to me?"

“Uh…” Lucifer blinks. “Yeah, kinda…”

Alastor shrugs. “Well, you know what they say about assumptions.”

Touché, Lucifer wordlessly concedes. He realizes that the residual panic has all but receded in the face of Alastor’s anecdote. 

“Safe to say you never found a dame to settle down with?” Lucifer queries, relaxing once more.  

“Astute, as always, your Grace,” Alastor says. He frowns, seemingly displeased when he comes across a missing patch of feathers but doesn't comment on it. “As shocking as it may be to hear, I am not well suited for romantic entanglements. Relationships require compromise, sacrifice, and the ability to admit to one’s faults. Not exactly my specialty.” He raises a shrewd brow. “Nor yours, O' Sin of Pride?”

“Asshole,” Lucifer says, but there’s no bite to it.

It leaves Alastor looking terribly smug and just as terribly handsome. 

The silence that follows is an easy one, broken up only by Alastor's static and the shuffling of his feathers.

And yet, Lucifer can't help but squirm, restless after almost a week of being bedridden.

Alastor ignores him for the most part, though he tugs a little harder on a few feathers when Lucifer's shifting becomes disruptive.

Unable to settle, Lucifer blurts out, “So… cannibalism, huh?”

A bark of genuine laughter is his response.

Alastor's shoulders shake with the sheer force of it.

Of course, it’s a beautiful sound.

“Was that a question, your Grace?” Alastor asks once he composes himself.

“Shut up.” Lucifer’s smile is a small thing. He toys at a loose thread of his pillowcase. “I’m still rusty, you know. Talking to people.”

“You don’t say,” Alastor muses, hands drifting to his primaries. “I would never have guessed. It's not as if you blubbered your way through dinner last week after asking Vaggie what her intentions were with your daughter. Why, you nearly killed the few residents we have with secondhand embarrassment."

“Fuck off,” Lucifer says but he’s laughing now, too. “Christ, why are you like this?”

Alastor smiles at him. Something about it is different than all the ones before it. “You like it."

Lucifer does. “I do not," is what he says. "You’re categorically terrible.”

“Flatterer.”

“Says the sinner preening my wings.”

A red hue infuses high in Alastor's cheeks, so faint, Lucifer could almost believe it to be a trick of light. “I simply wish to dispel any staff concerns about their king, so that they can focus on their jobs," he tells him.

He pauses then, lowering his gaze to the feathers in his grasp.

"Also, I find myself wanting for mon serpent’s company as of late. I suppose you could say I've grown... accustomed to it.”

Lucifer clutches his pillow.

His stomach flips, flutters, twists. 

He doesn't want to jeopardize this budding... friendship (???) with Alastor.

Which means he should leave these simmering feelings he has voiceless.

Which means that he should absolutely not breathe life into them.

To examine them any further, to even entertain them, is madness. 

It'd almost certainly push away the one person who seems to sometimes-sort-of enjoy his company. 

And yet...

All Lucifer wants in this moment where Alastor is humming a jazzy number and tending to his wings is to coax these feelings closer to the surface.

— to name them, to know them, to know him. 

If only Lucifer could accept that ignorance was the lesser evil for once.

Chapter Text

The next day, Lucifer wakes not to phantom blue skies but to a sprawling white canopy, the sheer material of which drapes elegantly over his bedposts. 

It reminds him somewhat of a circus tent. 

He can't recall with any certainty what decade the carnival life became a hyperfixation of his, but it's one that never quite left him; not like the others that came and went once he’d wrung a hobby of all the dopamine it was worth, and it could no longer get him out of bed. 

If nothing else, he found the imagery fitting — him as the ringmaster of a realm he never asked for. 'Not my circus, not my monkeys,' would never apply to him, now would it?

Lucifer rolls onto his side and sighs into his sheets. The crimson satin fits in quite nicely with the hellscape around him, though the charmed decor is nullified somewhat by the plethora of ducks and body pillows.

One of the few silver linings of not taking another lover after Lilith was that he didn't need to explain to another his predisposition to nesting. It's embarrassing, after all, admitting that he, the King of Hell, only feels safe and secure when surrounded by tender warmth and comfort items. 

He thanks his lucky stars, the ones he made, that he'd just recently deconstructed his nest prior to this most recent bout of dissociation, saving him from the truly humiliating experience of Alastor beholding such a pitiful sight.  

Not that Alastor hadn't gotten an eyeful, but it could've certainly been worse. 

A damp touch, warm at his cheek, draws him from his musings.

Lucifer closes his eyes and turns to nuzzle Eden’s smooth head. 

“Hey, you,” he says, chest rumbling with affection. 

She responds with a gentle, questioning hiss. 

“I’m… doing better,” he offers. “I’m sorry I worried you. I didn’t mean to let it get that bad. I just… everything felt like too much,” he tells her even though she already knows. 

He lowers his gaze, finding her vertical pupils. Smiling, he trails the pad of his finger over her head.

“How can I make it up to you?” he asks. 

Her reply is instantaneous. 

The vibrant hiss is accompanied by a shimmy of her long body.

Lucifer rolls his eyes. “Of course,” he mutters, sighing. “How did I know you were going to say that…”

He looks up toward the canopy in contemplation, considering her request. He'd been pretty adamant thus far about keeping her and Alastor separated, but after yesterday's impromptu preening session, one thing has become abundantly clear: as long as Lucifer remains at the hotel, Eden will find a way to Alastor or he to her. 

Whether Lucifer accepts it or not, the fact remains that it is a losing battle to keep them apart. 

Maybe not all hope is lost, though. Perhaps, he can mold her affections into something tamer. Maybe even teach her how to exercise some restraint.

He repeats these thoughts in his head like affirmations as he goes through the motions of his routine. All the while, he tries not to think too hard about what he’s doing lest he paralyze himself again with indecision. 

It isn’t until he’s entering the staff kitchen that he locks up again.

This time, his executive dysfunction isn't to blame. 

Rather, it’s the sight of Charlie and Alastor, huddled by the coffee pot, reviewing the day's agenda.

Charlie is prattling on excitedly while Alastor is simply standing there with his ‘sweet summer child’ smile, looking as handsome as ever. 

Lucifer watches them silently from the doorway. 

A few weeks ago, the sight of them together like this would've elicited jealousy, Alastor serving as a constant reminder of all his gaping flaws as a parent.

Now... well, Lucifer isn't sure what he feels.

Longing, he thinks.

For the same unburdened, easygoing relationship with his daughter. To be a part of this little family she's built, to be another source of support for her — beside Alastor, instead of in place of. 

But he can't trust Alastor, not with Charlie, not with his greatest creation, not with that deal hanging over their heads… even if a part of him wants to.

Charlie laughs then, the sound reminiscent of tinkling bells. She’s a miracle in and of herself, and she doesn’t even know it. 

When Alastor speaks, he gives his cane a spin, a showman through and through (except maybe, in those private moments when it's just the two of him, and there’s no one else to put a show on for, because Lucifer knows how exhausting it is, and it's nice, isn’t it, to not have to perform all the time, and oh, Alastor, are you terrified, too?) 

Charlie is practically flailing, uncoordinated in her excitement. From one blink to the next, she's replaced by the version of himself from the garden. 

And it's so sudden, so disconcerting, that Lucifer stumbles against the doorframe, drawing both of their gazes. 

Charlie’s face lights up. 

“Dad!” she yells and takes off toward him. 

The moment her arms encircle his shoulders, Lucifer is swept up in her warmth, a tide he doesn't resist. When his lungs constrict, he's able to play off the hitched sound as her squeezing him too tightly. 

He wraps his arms around her waist in turn, clinging to her, so tall like her mother, but more yielding, more willing to overlook his shortcomings until the day she gets tired of those, too. 

“I’m so happy to see you,” his daughter is saying. Abruptly, she grips his shoulders and pushes him away so that she can examine him head to toe.

Alastor stands several feet behind her and lets them have their moment, patiently waiting his turn for… for what?

“You doing okay, Dad?”

Lucifer’s gaze returns to her. “Better,” he says. “Sorry about disappearing on you like that… again.“

“Dad, don’t apologize!” she tells him earnestly. “I know this — being here — is a lot. The hotel is really different from the palace, and I totally get that you need your space sometimes!” A small frown shapes her lips. “I just… worry about you, you know.”

And as much as Lucifer hates to admit it, Alastor was absolutely right. His troubles are not her burden to bear.

“Yeah, I know, kiddo,” Lucifer says. He covers her hands with his and removes them from his shoulders, squeezing gently before releasing them. “But I’m the parent here, so you just leave all the worrying to me, okay?”

Charlie huffs a laugh. “Not gonna happen, Dad. I guess we’ll just have to worry about each other.”

From afar, he hears Alastor sigh, likely at what hopeless causes they are, these Morningstars.

Lucifer fights a smile at his palpable exasperation. "So," he says, “did I miss anything important while I was out?”

“Oh! Um, let’s see.” Charlie taps her chin. “Well, we have two new residents! Oh, I guess, we had two. Alastor had to escort one of them off the premises after they tried to take over the hotel."

"Escort, yes," Alastor remarks wryly. "Nothing like a little hostage negotiation to start off the week. It was quite entertaining if I do say so myself!"

That sharp smile doesn't bode well for the fate of the sinner audacious enough to attempt a hostile takeover of the hotel. Regardless, Lucifer can't say he disapproves of whatever methods Alastor employed as retribution. 

"We also had a staff bonding night!” Charlie continues. “It was so nice! Well, except for the part where Angel and Cherri got drunk and threw up on Husk’s shoes. Luckily, Vaggie was able to corral them all to bed after that. Oh! But then, Alastor joined in, and we had an amazing heart-to-heart. We talked about overlord politics and angels and — ”

“Oh?” Lucifer casts an inquisitive gaze Alastor's way. “What about angels?”

“Oh, nothing bad!” Charlie assures him quickly. “We mostly just talked about how things have been with Vaggie since her, uh, angelic nature came to light. It's been nice honestly, being able to be there for her in the ways she needs me to be. And I already know so much from watching you and Mom — “

“Charlie, dear,” Alastor interrupts. “Are you aware that the morning group has already started? You know, as the proprietress of this fine establishment, your punctuality is of the utmost importance!”

Charlie gasps at that, wide eyes dropping to her wristwatch. “Oh gosh, when did it get so late? I'm so sorry, Dad, I gotta run, but we can talk more later.” She pauses, the light in her gaze dimming for a moment when she asks, “See you at dinner?”

Lucifer smiles at her. It hurts, knowing there's a part of her bracing for rejection. 

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he promises. 

She grins, reverting to her cheerful self, and gives him one last hug before exiting the kitchen.

"So..." Lucifer says, canting his head toward the remaining occupant. "Where did you say you learned about wing care again?”

Alastor shrugs. “I didn’t," he says. Then, "You look well, your Majesty."

It’s just an observation spoken in a completely neutral tone, so Lucifer doesn’t know why his heart skips a beat. His wings, even tucked away in another dimension, feel better than they have in ages, tuned like some beloved instrument. His shoulders are a touch lighter, not bearing the weight of their disarray. At the recollection of Alastor’s fingers combing through his feathers, something dangerous stirs in Lucifer's chest, something that tastes like hope. 

As far removed as Lucifer is from the inner workings of Hell, he still knows how this place works, the checks and balances of it all. Uneven exchanges, free favors, weren't commonplace amongst dealmakers like Alastor.

“Uh, yeah." Lucifer clears his throat. “About that… I — “

But before he can do something truly foolish, like thank Alastor for his show of kindness, Eden makes herself known with an impatient hiss.

He’s tempted to bat her away from his hat but resists the childish whim. He can give her this much. He owes it to her after she had to endure a week of involuntary lockdown. 

When Alastor reaches for her, his smile is a pretty thing, curved at the edges.

Eden eases into the offered palm, and Alastor lifts her up to appraise her after her time away. 

Unable to stay still, she curls her tail around his wrist and unceremoniously drops herself to boop him on the nose. 

Alastor laughs in surprise, and Lucifer feels the heat of a thousand suns burning under his skin at her display. 

“Ha, sorry about that,” Lucifer feels compelled to say. “I guess she missed you.” 

As if to prove his point, Eden stretches out to hoist herself on top of Alastor's head, curling around his antlers for leverage. 

“Her absence was noted as well," Alastor hums as she settles. He turns to catch Lucifer's gaze. “Which is why I must insist you take better care of yourself. I’m rather… fond of her, after all." 

Time holds its breath — or maybe, it's just Lucifer, unable to do anything else but exist under the intensity of Alastor's stare.

There's always been this cloying tension between them, ever since they first laid eyes on each other, but it's different now, lacking any trace of hostility. 

But then, Alastor turns away from him, and time resumes as if nothing happened, as if Lucifer's world isn't spinning a little bit faster now. 

Per usual, he's the only one to take note of it, because Alastor is already moving on, gathering his coffee to sit down at the kitchen table. He picks up the 666 newspaper and begins to read and all Lucifer can do is stare dumbly after him. 

“Do you intend to simply stand there like you've gone daft or are you going to join me?”

Even laced with irritation, Lucifer recognizes it as an invitation. 

One Lucifer wordlessly accepts. 

He draws toward the cabinets and pulls out the decorative duck mug, the one that Alastor created from the shadows for him, and pours himself some coffee.

Eden is already slumbering in the nest of Alastor's hair when he approaches the table and lowers himself onto the seat opposite them. 

The first sip of his coffee is heavenly, as is the smattering of jazz filtering through the room. 

A contented silence unfurls between them, the kind that Lucifer covets. 

Makes sense then that he'd sabotage it by speaking. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

Alastor flips a page. “No.” 

Lucifer closes his mouth with an audible snap. 

Alastor glances at him from underneath a curtain of scarlet. “Did you really not expect that answer as a possibility?”

“No,” Lucifer says, and he laughs. “Why didn’t I expect that?”

Alastor smirks. “Surely you don't expect me to take it easy on you simply because you were feeling under the weather this past week,” he says. 

“Understatement of the century, but no, I guess not,” Lucifer scoffs. “But also, fuck you, I’m asking anyways.”

Rather than be annoyed, Alastor looks rather pleased by his spark of rebellion. 

That is, until Lucifer says, “So, after the battle…” 

And then, that amused countenance is replaced by a shuttered expression. It’s actually quite subtle, the tension that seeps into Alastor’s shoulders, the taut edge of his smile. Not at all noticeable, if one wasn’t looking closely. 

“What about it?”

“You disappeared.”

“Your observation skills leave me in awe.”

Asshole. "Vox said — “

“Vox is a sniveling lackey and a cancerous source of misinformation that cannot be trusted.”

The words are spoken with vitriol, diametrically opposed to Alastor's usual aloofness whenever the media-obsessed Overlord comes up in conversation.

Even Eden has perked up from her perch, her metaphysical hackles rising. 

Lucifer blinks. “Right. Tell me how you really feel.” 

A long, tense moment passes in silence. 

Then, the menacing aura caressing Alastor's sharp edges fades. He sighs at his own outburst.

Lucifer doesn’t know if it's Vox or the subject of his injuries that has triggered Alastor in such a way.

Both make him feel uncomfortable for entirely different reasons. 

“The injuries I sustained during the battle have healed and are no longer a concern," Alastor finally says.  

The confirmation that Alastor had been wounded, gravely based on Vox’s insinuation, that he hadn't simply fled and abandoned everyone else to their doom, makes Lucifer's stomach churn.  

He can still recall how infuriated he'd been when Alastor had manifested in the middle of their group hug after the hotel had been rebuilt. 

It would’ve been so much better if Alastor hadn’t, and it’s a terrible, terrible thought, but it’s true. 

He should've disappeared into the abyss when doing so wouldn’t have cost Lucifer so much. 

Now, he can’t go, not without Lucifer following after him.

“You seem upset by this news. Apologies if my full recovery distresses you so.”

“That’s not — “ Lucifer bites his lip so hard, he nearly splits it. 

Alastor lowers his paper with a put-upon sigh. “What has your feathers all ruffled?” 

“I just…” Lucifer frowns. “I would’ve helped you. If you'd said something.” 

Alastor stares. “In exchange for?”

“Nothing!” splutters Lucifer. 

A harsh hiss of discordant static. “I don’t accept charity.”

“It's not — fuck, you’re really a piece of work, you know that?" Lucifer groans. "I just meant I would’ve healed you had you asked! You might not know this about me, but I don't actually like needless suffering — “

“Who says it was needless? Suffering builds character.”

“I… I don’t even know what to say to that.” Lucifer carries on before Alastor's words can sink into his hollow bones. “Listen, I know we weren't — that things were different between us before, but I wouldn't have turned you away. God forbid you just asked for my help, noooo, you’re too much of a prideful bastard for that!"

"Like calls to like, I suppose.” And before Lucifer can respond to that, Alastor tilts his head and says, "Tell me, your Majesty, why does my pain distress you more than it does me?"

"Because," Lucifer breathes, and it feels tight in his lungs, because he cares, too much, far, far too much. "Because you're my friend."

The word feels wrong in his mouth, lacking and wholly incomplete. He knows whatever he feels towards Alastor stretches past the bounds of friendship, knows that the sprawling roots of this particular affliction are burrowed deep enough that he can't remove them without irreparable damage. 

More to the point, Lucifer doesn’t have friends; he has subjects who fear him, mock him, or loathe him, but he doesn’t have people to talk to, to confide in, to shelter away with in his nest or in his soul. 

“Friend?” Alastor echoes. 

It sounds even more ridiculous coming from Alastor's mouth. The way Alastor says it, the strangeness of the static-laden word, the hint of distaste, makes Lucifer backpedal. 

“Nevermind — “

“Okay.” 

Lucifer pauses. “Okay?” 

“We can be friends,” Alastor says. His gaze returns to the paper. “If you’d like.”

Really feeling the enthusiasm there, but, "Okay, I... I'd like that."

And because Lucifer can't sit silently in this moment where he might have made his very first friend in a depressingly long time, he says, "So, really now... are you okay?"

“Playing the friendship card so soon?” Alastor says, but it's more teasing than snarky. “As I said before, I am perfectly alright. Though I’m afraid if you ask me again, I won’t be held responsible for the property damages.”

Lucifer decides to let it go for now. He ruins a great many things, but he doesn’t want to ruin this pocket of tentative friendship they've found themselves in. 

He’ll save it for another day. 

He and Alastor will have more days, after all. 

In the interim, Lucifer settles on something safe — a pastime they can both enjoy.

Talking shit. 

“So,” Lucifer says, and he leans forward conspiratorially. The movement immediately captures Alastor’s attention. “Any word from our friends over at the Vee Tower?” 

“Sadly, they've all regenerated,” Alastor says, taking a sip of his coffee. “Though, they are quiet. I imagine that they are still licking their wounds. Perhaps, plotting revenge."

“Hm. Well, they know where to find us if they want an encore performance.” Then, thinking aloud, Lucifer says, “You know, sinners usually spawn with animal traits. Whole shtick aside, I wonder why Vox has a TV for a head.”

Without missing a beat, Alastor tsks, “Sad story that. Rumor has it that he was too ashamed of his scars, and so he replaced his head with a picture box.”

“Scars?”

“Why, the ones he acquired from dodging a coat hanger for nine months.”

Lucifer’s startled laughter ripples through the space.

He slaps his hand over his mouth, a disastrously poor attempt at stifling it, but it's no use as he ends up choking on a full-bellied laugh. 

“Ugh, that was… so inappropriate,” Lucifer wheezes and coughs into his fist. “You’re such a bastard.”

A very smug bastard who turns back to his paper with a haughty gleam in his gaze. 

Lucifer wipes a tear from his eye, composing himself. The smile on his face remains as he sips at his coffee and watches Alastor over the rim. “Give me the comics, will ya?”

Alastor huffs but obliges with as much fuss as he can manage. Later, when Lucifer gets up for seconds, he takes Alastor’s empty mug with him and refills both of them.  

And if the other residents are at all bewildered, walking in on this domestic scene of them at the kitchen table, sharing a newspaper over coffee, Lucifer hardly notices. 

Chapter Text

Lucifer stands before the impenetrable glass wall of his suite, his power a gentle hum beneath his skin. Warmth suffuses his fingertips as he runs his bow over the golden strings of his fiddle. A mournful melody swells as he surveys his kingdom with unseeing eyes. It lends a voice to the profound sorrow, nestled deep in his soul, that Lucifer has never been able to adequately put into words. 

He'd never wanted this.

Had never wanted a crown. 

He'd simply witnessed humans — these beings with sentience and souls — chained to ignorance and had determined it unjust.

And so, he'd broken their chains. 

He hadn't known the steep cost of his hubris at the time. That the price would be his home in Heaven, his flock, his angelic grace, his innocence... and even Lilith. 

He'd lost what they could've been the moment they Fell. After that, they'd become little more than two trauma victims intertwined by the cruel hands of fate.

Except Lilith had accepted her punishment with startling ease. Born with the expectation she serve, she'd taken to ruling with grace and delight. 

But Lucifer… all he'd ever wanted was to belong. 

An image drifts through his mind, a ghost in red, so much red, and a whisper of static. 

He flinches and a discordant note follows before he steadies his hands. 

Alastor… 

It’d been far too easy to shift from bitter rivals to friends once they'd made the decision to do so — a label that doesn’t fit quite right except in all the ways it does.

But maybe that’s because it was always meant to be this way — them, like this.

In some ways, Lucifer’s days have markedly improved. 

For one, Charlie is so happy. She practically fawns over them, reinforcing every positive interaction they have and every task they accomplish together with her glowing stamp of approval.

With Alastor unknowingly helping him bear the oppressive weight of his loneliness, Lucifer also finds he doesn't drift off to the Garden during the day as often as before. He still visits at night though, unwilling to abandon his younger self who only has his creations for company.

And it’s great, really, because the world isn’t so stifling with Alastor’s cutting sass, running commentary, and jazzy show tunes — oh, and his laugh, his real one, the one that makes Lucifer stop whatever he’s doing to listen, to watch another star be born, somewhere out of his reach, just as Alastor is and always will be. 

Because being friends is the end of the road for them, and Lucifer knows he just needs to enjoy the scenery for once and not fuck up this precious gift of friendship he’s been given, wrapped up in a psychopathic unrepentant murderer. That Alastor has never shown any inclination for romance or relationships only reinforces his efforts to maintain neutrality. 

The problem, of course, is his traitorous heart that still skips a beat whenever Alastor shares his space. 

He won't surrender to temptation though, not this time. He’ll swallow the words, he’ll keep his hands busy, he'll remind himself that he cannot whisk Alastor away because Alastor never asked for any of this — to be his keeper, his crutch, like Lily was. 

And in these moments, when he’s alone, when the melancholy clings to him even after he’s broken through the worst of its unforgiving hold, he thinks he really can stop himself from falling again. 

A hand touches the small of his back. 

“Your Grace.”

Startled, Lucifer pops out of existence, too surprised by Alastor’s sudden appearance to maintain his physical form. 

It's disorienting, to say the least, when he rematerializes moments later without his fiddle (damn, he’ll have to search through the ether for it later). 

He haphazardly tucks himself within the confines of his human form and then turns to find Alastor donning the most delightfully bemused expression. 

“Apologies for startling you, your Majesty,” says Alastor. “I had called out for you several times.”

“Oh.” Lucifer frowns. “Sorry about that. I was distracted.” 

“I ascertained as much.”

Alastor gestures toward the sitting area of Lucifer’s suite. A serving tray with a steaming kettle and two teacups sits on the center table. They do this now, several times a week — sit and decompress from the day in each other's company with some coffee or tea — or, on especially tasking days, some whiskey. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they don't, sometimes Alastor reads and Lucifer fiddles with his creations, agonizing the entire time over whether he should show Alastor, though he never does.

And it's quite lovely, because Alastor’s presence demands nothing of him, and he demands nothing in return. He wonders if that’s what keeps Alastor coming back. If nothing else, it must be lonely for the demon who never rests, watching the world as it sleeps. 

It'd been challenging at first, allowing Alastor into his space, to have him amidst his treasures and force himself to accept that Alastor isn't one of them. It's somewhat easier now, having grown accustomed to the conflicting feelings the sinner often invokes. 

Once relocated, Alastor adjusts his suit jacket and lowers himself onto his seat. Lucifer settles across from him as the latter fills their respective cups. He spies a snoozing Eden coiled around Alastor's arm like a stylish albeit clingy accessory.  

The adjacent fireplace crackles to life. 

"Were you daydreaming again, your Majesty?”

“Ah, no,” says Lucifer. “Just… thinking.”

“How ambitious of you!” Alastor chirps. “Care to share with the class?"

“Pfft. Just say you’re nosy and be done with it,” Lucifer deflects because what’s he supposed to say? “You know, I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

“I can leave if I'm interrupting,” Alastor says with the same old smile as if it truly doesn't matter to him either way. 

“No, no — “ Lucifer takes a breath. “It's not that. You just weren't around the hotel much today. I figured you needed some space.”

“I did," Alastor says. "The Overlord meeting this morning was tedious. Vox was more intolerable than usual, and there's only so much stupidity a man like myself can take.”

Lucifer hums, tone neutral despite how his blood temperature rises several degrees at the sinner's name.

“Sounds terrible,” he says, and he means it. He’s had his fair share of miserable meetings with the Sins. He’d taken the coward’s way out, of course, and just stopped attending altogether, but he doubts Alastor has the same luxury. 

“Indeed.” Alastor pauses to take a sip of his tea. ”So, I took the day to recoup lest I accidentally take my frustrations out on an unsuspecting guest. And would you look at that, the hotel still seems to be standing in my absence. Good job!” 

“Ass.” Lucifer snorts. 

“I figured now was as good of a time as any to go over my broadcast notes for tomorrow," continues Alastor. "And your company isn’t terrible. I dare say you can be helpful when I require assistance narrowing down my segments."

“What? Are you kidding? You never take my advice. In fact, you always do the opposite of what I suggest!”

“Precisely!” exclaims Alastor. “Why, you are invaluable in deciding exactly what I should not do!”

“Ass. Hole.” Lucifer says, and oh, he wants to strangle him, lovingly, if that's possible. 

Alastor has the unmitigated audacity to untie his bowtie then as he reclines into his seat. The sleek black ribbon hangs around the elegant slopes of Alastor's neck, and Lucifer looks elsewhere. Becoming flustered at someone loosening their bowtie has to be scraping the bottom barrel of pathetic. 

Movement catches his attention on the nearby wall, and Lucifer's gaze darts to it. 

Alastor’s shadow. 

Even without pupils, Lucifer knows that it's watching him. He stares back, considering. So far as he’s seen, the shadow doesn’t really engage with its surroundings other than to stalk menacingly. Without knowing its origin, Lucifer can’t tell how sentient it really is — if it has a mind of its own, like Eden, or if it truly bends to the whims of its host. 

The window to ask opens before him. 

“So, what's the deal with creepy-crawly over there?”

He inclines his chin, and Alastor's gaze follows. There's a pregnant pause, in which Lucifer can see Alastor deciding whether he wants to answer or to obfuscate. 

He opts for a third option Lucifer hadn't considered. 

“I’ll tell you, but I require information in return.” Alastor watches him, gaze piercing — peering into his depths, and Lucifer crosses his arms over his chest. “Tell me what Eden is to you.”

Despite the cold phantom caress of dread, Lucifer scoffs. “Nope." The word pops from nearly laughing lips. “Not on your life.” 

"Then, it looks like we'll both be keeping our secrets,” Alastor says. “Perhaps instead, you'd like to share what transpired in the hotel today during my absence.”

That was certainly safer territory. With a sigh, Lucifer eases back onto dry land. “Nothing out of the ordinary. A new guest checked in… two checked out in their place. You know how it goes.” 

"I do," Alastor hums. "Though, I can't help but notice how incredibly pessimistic you sound over it." He tilts his head, gaze knowing. "Tell me, do you believe rehabilitation of these — ah, what was it… violent psychopaths is possible, your Grace?”

And there Lucifer goes, right back into the abyss. 

He doesn’t want to admit that he believes Charlie’s efforts are all for naught, but Hell was always meant to be the end of the road for sinners. They had been gifted free will, and they chose evil. Now, they had to lie in the bed they'd made — just like him.

For all their propaganda, Heaven wasn’t actually big on the whole forgiveness business. 

“I… I don't know, Al.” Lucifer chuckles humorlessly. “I don’t know much of anything. But what I do know is that if anyone can help rehabilitate sinners, it's Charlie.”

Alastor nods primly. Whether it's in acknowledgment or agreement, Lucifer can't say.  

“Speaking of Charlie,” Alastor says, and there's a slowness to his speech as if he's choosing his words with care. “I have an inquiry if you'll allow. Between friends.”

Lucifer is immediately suspicious. “Go on."

A long moment. Then, “My deal with Charlie," he says. "It upsets you.” 

“Upsets me? Really downplaying it there, Al.”

Alastor's blasé tone does little to mitigate Lucifer's surprise. After weeks of ceasefire, of cohesion and quiet company, there’s a risk here, in bringing this deal to the forefront of Lucifer's mind. 

As helplessly drawn as he is to Alastor, Lucifer would erase him from this realm and suffer an unending existence in solitude, in grief, if Alastor ever hurt Charlie.

Alastor continues, “You are arguably the second most powerful being in creation, and yet… you didn't break it. Which makes me wonder if you are bound by the sanctity of deals as well despite Hell being your domain, being…”

You. 

Lucifer knows why Alastor is asking; he can see the faint etchings of a collar around his neck. The Radio Demon would be remiss not to use their friendship to his advantage, forever the opportunist.

No matter his feelings, Lucifer knows exactly who Alastor is. 

However, he's willing to play along and allow Alastor his pride. 

“I can break deals,” admits Lucifer. 

And even though he thinks part of Alastor knew that, he still seems surprised. 

Alastor hesitates. “Then why…?” 

Now that's the real question, isn't it. 

“Because she entered into a deal with you, willingly,” he says. “She made the choice, and if I undid it, I’d be taking that choice away. Sort of runs counterintuitive to the whole Free Will thing.”

Alastor contemplates this in silence, and what’s Lucifer to do but spill his feelings that no one ever asked for?

“I didn't always see it that way,” Lucifer confesses. “When the first sinners arrived, I saw so many awful fucking deals, some downright cruel. So, I broke them. As you can imagine, that didn't go over well. I got a lot of backlash for interfering, but I didn't care. Fuck’em. I saw something I thought was wrong, and I tried to fix it.” 

“You do have a tendency to do just that,” says Alastor with a wry smile. 

“Ha. Yeah, well… Pride is my sin for a reason,” Lucifer sighs. “At first, I thought I was doing the right thing. But then I'd see the same sinners I’d freed from terrible deals right back in shackles, sometimes worse than before. I realized I was being a hypocrite, breaking these deals just because I didn't like them. So, I stopped.” He straightens and levels his gaze with Alastor. “In short… I could break your deal with Charlie. But I won’t. I want to respect her choice but Alastor — don’t.” He clenches his jaw. “I’m asking you. As a friend. Don’t hurt her.”

Despite the distortion in Lucifer’s voice, the lowered octave that sounds like it belongs in a grave, Alastor doesn't shy away from him.

He meets Lucifer's stare head-on. 

“No harm will come to Charlie, your Majesty,” and it's an easy thing, the way Alastor says it as if the thought really hadn't crossed his mind. “She is a remarkable young lady, and though I find her optimism borderline criminal, she is no damsel. She included stipulations prior to our deal to ensure her morals would not be compromised." 

Lucifer’s smile is a small thing, fond yet pained. “I always told her, ‘don't take shit from other demons.’ I'm glad, if nothing else, I could impart that onto her.” 

His eyes fall to his drink. He inhales a steadying breath deep into his lungs and holds it there. “You know, sometimes…” he says into the space between him and Alastor. “Sometimes, I wish I could have another chance at being a dad. A do-over. Don't get me wrong, I'm here now, and I plan to make it count… but I missed out on so much of Charlie's childhood, and… I know I can't replace what I've lost, but I'd be lying if I said the thought never crossed my mind…” Lucifer’s shoulders drop. “Does… does that make me a terrible dad?” 

Leave it to him to seek reassurance from a sociopathic serial killer. But he reaches out all the same, opens himself up to the risk of being pushed away, too resigned and too lonely to care.

What a relief it is then when Alastor meets him halfway. 

"Not terrible, no,” Alastor says. “Anyone with functioning retinas can see how much you love Charlie. But while you may have missed some formative years, your time is better spent being present than entertaining such notions.” He pauses then, the rim of his teacup at his lips. “Unless, of course, you are intending to find a woman to bed.” 

It's almost instinctual, how quickly Lucifer opens his mouth to correct him. He snaps it closed just as fast — too fast — and his teeth click. 

It's too late, though. 

Alastor’s gaze sharpens, almost accusatory, as if Lucifer’s intention is exactly that — to secure another wife, another family. 

No, you stupid fucking deer, how can you not see it? I don't want anybody else, anybody but —  

Lucifer lifts his gaze to stare at the ceiling. He doesn't want to watch Alastor’s face in case his next disclosure is an unwelcome one. 

“I carried Charlie,” he says.

“Oh." Alastor pauses. "I... had never considered that."

“It's not something we talk about often,” Lucifer says, and he tries to wrangle in his defensive tone; there's no need for it here, where Alastor is more curious than uncomfortable. “Sinners are sterile. Lilith was technically the first one. And I… well, I create. As I said before, angels and gender... it's all very fluid. We can, uh — well, you know..."

Lucifer winces at his attempt at explanation, but Alastor doesn't seem to be paying his internal conflict any mind.

After a few agonizing beats of silence, Alastor says, “It must have been difficult for you when the Queen took Charlie away.”

Difficult, Lucifer repeats to himself. 

No, no, Falling was difficult. Exile from Heaven, from his family was difficult. 

But watching Lilith walk out that door with Charlie in tow, being told that he was incapable of caring for the daughter he'd created from his own flesh and bone… that was excruciating. 

It shook his foundation to his core, tested his resolve to live. The resulting cracks in his heart were more everlasting than the fractures of his body when he Fell. If his Creator hadn’t deemed his demise near impossible, Lucifer isn't sure he would’ve survived Charlie being taken away from him. 

“Apologies.” Alastor's voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. “I did not mean to bring up bad memories.”

“It’s fine, I just…" Lucifer looks back at Alastor and shakes his head to dislodge the cloying sensation of loss, "when you’re with someone for so long, it’s easy to see them with rose-tinted glasses. But taking Charlie... that is something I can never forgive Lilith for.” 

He feels too raw, like he often does when he overshares. The last thing he wants is to bore Alastor to a second death by word-vomiting the details surrounding his marital demise.

He doesn't even realize he's fidgeting with his ring, twisting it round and round his finger until he looks down at his hands in his lap. 

He knows he should take it off, he knows that, but it feels too much like admitting defeat, like accepting the role of the fool, to think he could ever have a family and a contented life after what he did.

“My mother was a holy woman,” says Alastor. The abruptness of it draws Lucifer's gaze back to him. “But for me," Alastor continues, "for me, she would’ve let the world burn.”

The tiniest hint of a smile tugs at Lucifer’s lips. “You loved your mother,” he says. 

“Dearly,” Alastor replies. His gaze is pensive, far away. Lucifer knows what it's like to be haunted by ghosts, and he can see them now, dancing within Alastor’s eyes. “She was lovely. She taught me everything I know, from dance to cuisine. Our lives were not easy, by any means. Due to our circumstances, she had to work often, but she wore a smile through it all. If anyone deserved Heaven, it was her. Though, the world was much less bright without her in it.” Alastor laughs then, but the sound takes on a darker edge, brimming with spite. “You know, when I was young, I thought perhaps my father was the Devil. Imagine my surprise when I meet the actual Devil in a hotel of rehabilitation for sinners.”

Lucifer’s putting the pieces together now of a pivotal point in Alastor's life, scattered across conversations, and he doesn’t like what he sees. 

Eden stirs just enough to nuzzle the inside of Alastor’s wrist. 

Alastor strokes her head in turn. 

“I imagine I'm not quite what you had in mind,” Lucifer says quietly, careful not to cross a line he cannot see.  

“No, not at all." Alastor laughs again, more genuine this time. "No, I've come to find the Devil is far too…” he gazes at him, “... soft.”

And before the moment can take hold, the one with the potential to change everything, Alastor’s gaze clears. He straightens in his chair. “Have you been taking care of your wings?”

Lucifer startles at the abrupt subject and atmospheric change. Disoriented, he says, “Uh... I… yeah?” 

For the Father of Lies, he's actually quite terrible at it. 

Fact is, Lucifer has always been awful at maintaining his wing hygiene. Preening them himself doesn't bring him nearly the same level of satisfaction as it did the rare times Lily cared for them (or more recently, when Alastor did). 

That and it's difficult, extending himself any kindness. 

They flutter pitifully in their dimension, bewitched by the prospect of getting Alastor's hands back on them. But it's not like Lucifer can just ask, say ol' buddy ol’ pal, can you tidy these wings of mine? 

At the unimpressed look cast his way, Lucifer repeats, firmer now. “Yes, I have.”

“Splendid!” Alastor says. “I shall look over them after I tend to my notes to make sure you didn't miss any spots.” 

Shit. “Oh, you don't have to — ”

“I don't have to do anything,” Alastor says with a razor-sharp smile. “The wonder of free will, wouldn't you say?” 

Lucifer relents, battle already lost. “Yeah… a wonder, indeed.” 

With that, Alastor gathers his broadcast notes from the table and reclines more fully into his seat, crossing his legs as he gets comfortable. Lucifer is too out of sorts to return to his workbench, so he pulls his legs onto the loveseat and stays put. Tea in hand, he soothes himself with the sounds of Alastor's music in front of the fire.

When Alastor finishes, he deposits Eden onto Lucifer's hat on the nightstand and shadow-teleports behind him. 

He spends the next half hour or so admonishing Lucifer as he tends to his wings, putting them back to rights, and if Lucifer had the power to freeze time, he would've, just to stay in this moment a bit longer. 

When Alastor prepares to leave, Lucifer foolishly thinks about asking him to stay. Not for sex, he’d hastily clarify.

Hell, Alastor could stay on the opposite end of the bed for all he cares; Lucifer just wants him close. 

He wonders if, for Alastor, admitting to all that would be worse than actually propositioning him. 

Once he's alone, Lucifer distracts himself by constructing a new nest. He gathers his blankets and pillows and some of his favorite trinkets and arranges them onto the bed. And if he takes the bowtie that Alastor had left behind and puts it amongst the pile, well, no one is around to witness such a pitiful sight. 

That night, as he falls asleep to Alastor's scent, he drifts away…

But not to the Garden.

No, he’s… somewhere he doesn’t recognize.

In a memory, but not one that belongs to him. 

It’s so rare that this happens; only a few times many, many years ago when he'd let his soul brush too closely to Charlie and Lily.

But this isn’t a place he’s been before, and it's disorienting to take in all of the new sensory input at once.

He’s in a room.

No, wait... a closet.

Light pools in from the slits in the shabby door. It shakes from the ruckus happening right outside. There are voices, two — one panicked and pleading, the other raging. 

And then, another sound, of quiet weeping. 

Lucifer turns around and finds a small boy curled up in the corner, shaking and terrified. 

His knees hit the ground — instantly, instinctually — and Lucifer finds himself crawling toward the small, shivering bundle. 

Another scream, and Lucifer is struck with the desperate urge to take the boy into his arms and cover his ears, to shield him, protect him, hold him tight...

But when he reaches out to do just that, his hand goes right through him. 

Here, in this memory that isn't his, it would appear as if he’s the ghost. 

And so he is forced to watch, powerless, as the boy flinches with each pained scream, muffling his sobs in his thread-worn pants. 

It takes an agonizingly long time for the sounds outside the door to fall quiet, and when they do, all the boy with brown curly hair and broken glasses does is try and make himself smaller. 

Tears on his face, Lucifer watches, half-numb, as a shadow unfurls from the boy's socked feet and spills out across the closet floor. 

Chapter Text

Lucifer doesn’t sleep much after that. 

He'd been far too unsettled, distressed as if he'd lived through the ordeal himself, to the point that his celestial form had begun leaking out from the taut seams of his skin.

What little shut-eye he’d been able to latch onto had been done so at the bar after he'd secured a bottle of top-shelf liquor. It wasn't his usual vice, but drinking himself into a self-induced coma was the only way he’d been able to purge Alastor’s sweet face, puffy with tears and riddled with grief, from his mind. He’d seek oblivion in place of tarnished innocence any day. 

When he wakes, it's to a thump by his head. It might as well have been a hammer to the base of his skull with how the impact reverberates down his spine. He groans into his elbow, the makeshift pillow of his arms tightening around his head to dull the faint rustling behind the bar.  

“Coffee,” grunts the barkeep. 

Lucifer peeks one eye open from beneath the unkempt halo of his hair to stare blearily at the steaming mug before him. 

Husk doesn’t seem interested in why he’s there, doesn't bother to point out that Lucifer had clearly slept curled around the bartop. 

Now more than ever, Lucifer appreciates Husk's propensity to not ask questions. 

His mouth is thick, tasting like cotton and stale alcohol. He has to swallow before he croaks out a quiet, “Thanks.”

The world spins around him as he pulls himself up onto his elbows to better slouch over his coffee.

He likes to flirt with self-sabotage as much as the next guy, but even he can’t condemn himself to a day of having to endure this agony.  

Lifting a hand to cover his eyes, he rubs at his temples and allows his magic to soothe the ache until it's tolerable. His shoulders deflate as the pain disperses, but the heaviness in his heart remains.

“What time is it?” he mumbles, reaching for his coffee. 

“Five.”

Closer to morning than night, that's a start. He gulps down a mouthful of coffee. “What are you doing up so early?”

“I could ask you the same,” Husk says over his shoulder as he pulls a martini glass from the back shelf. “But I won't.”

Alright, not a morning person, fair enough. “Sorry…" Lucifer sighs. "I just can't imagine you have a lot of customers at this time.”

“You're here, aren't ya?” Husk polishes the glass in his hand then slings the used rag over his shoulder. “'Sides, Hell never sleeps. You'd be surprised by how many people are up around this time. The princess for one, she's usually working by now. Boss, too, and it's better to be available if he needs me.”

Ugh, Alastor would be an early riser.

Though, considering Alastor never actually slept, perhaps that wasn't the most accurate assessment. 

Before Lucifer can reply, another customer arrives in the form of Angel Dust, bursting through the front doors with a loud groan.  

“Heya, Whiskers,” he greets, his eyes at a downcast as he swipes at his phone screen. “My usual, and make it a double. Valentino was an utter cock today, and I’m about to pass out for the next twenty-four hours. I — oh!” 

Angel finally looks up from his phone and registers him, nursing the echo of a hangover at the end of the bar.

“Hey there, Short King. Geez, you look how I feel.” Angel slides into the stool beside him and gives him a quick once over. “Like shit.”

Lucifer huffs a laugh. “Yeah, thanks for that," he says, and he runs his fingers through his hair to smooth out some of the flyaways. "I couldn’t sleep."

“Ah,” Angel says knowingly. “Trouble in paradise, yeah?”

Lucifer snorts, taking a sip of his coffee. “That’s not what I’d call this place.”

“I was more so referin’ to you and Smiles.”

“Angel,” chides Husk as he passes him the martini glass, contents as pink as Angel's shirt. 

“Oh, hush you." Angel waves him off. "I got twenty ridin' on this."

It takes longer than it should for Lucifer to parse Angel’s insinuation but, in his defense, his brain isn't really firing on all fronts this morning.

“Huh? You mean Alastor?”

Angel raises a perfectly manicured brow. “You makin’ moon eyes all day at someone else?”

“What?” Lucifer splutters. “I do not make moon eyes at Alastor.”

“Oh, sure, sure.” Angel smiles into his drink. “My mistake.”

He’s often on the receiving end of sarcasm given it’s Alastor’s default when speaking, but it still makes his skin prickle all the same. “You’ve got the wrong idea about us,” Lucifer tells him, sounding distinctly defensive. He breathes in sharply and tries again, adopting a more neutral tone. “We’re just friends. For Charlie’s sake.”

The lie tastes sour in his mouth and is entirely unconvincing.

His company isn’t buying it either, that’s for sure, and Lucifer is left to stew in an awkward silence of his own making. 

He stares hard at his drink, wondering if it would be even more damning if he simply portalled away. 

Maybe Angel can sense his budding despair because he shows him mercy. “Aw, cheer up, Short King." He offers him a friendly pat on the back and a small smile for his troubles. “You've got nothin' to worry about, y'know. He’s got eyes for you, too."

Lucifer slowly closes his eyes and exhales a shuddering breath. What a terribly cruel thing to say.  

The last thing Lucifer needs is a reason to hope. 

Before he can dismiss Angel's observation as absurd, a smattering of static envelops the bar. The pitched radio waves skitter over his skin. His heart lurches in his chest.

“What have we here?” Alastor’s static-laden voice blooms within the crevices of the dreary bar, thorns and all. “As the facilities manager, one would think I'd be invited to all staff bonding activities.”

“Didn't realize you had any interest in bonding, boss,” Husk says flippantly. “‘Sides, this ain't official hotel business.” 

“Why, I can't think of another reason His Majesty would be sitting here with you two at five in the morning. Surely, he's not here to imbibe.”

Lucifer isn't sure he could imbibe anymore even if he wanted to. His stomach still churns, and Alastor's presence isn't helping. Ashamed and aching, Lucifer hasn't looked at him yet, and he can sense that Alastor is quite peeved about that as he awaits his acknowledgment.

He overcompensates, because of course he does, and swivels around on his stool far too quickly. 

He immediately regrets it when the room spins with him. 

It's Angel who steadies him with a hand at his shoulder. 

“Luci was just shootin’ the shit with us," Angel covers for him. "He's a riot, this one.” 

Alastor's shrewd gaze drifts over his face, and Lucifer forces himself to stay still under his assessment. No one knows how much time they spend in each other’s company, and they don’t need to. Lucifer is a collector, after all, and Alastor’s authentic smiles and laughter, those are his to keep. Yet, despite the fact that Alastor had preened his wings not eight hours prior, there's a weird energy between them now, and Lucifer knows he's to blame.

He can feel it cementing further when Alastor's eyes drift from his face to Angel's hand, still on his shoulder. His eyelids lower, gaze narrowing. 

“How benevolent of you, gracing us lowly sinners with your presence in your free time.” His eyes rise to meet his again. “Though, I'd like to inform you that the role of the drunkard is already taken by our dear Husker here! You'd be perhaps better suited as the resident jester. Or, if you're feeling so inclined, we're also in need of a gargoyle to perch on the rooftop. Why, that's even a job you could do!” 

Okay, fucking ow?

Alastor wasn’t one for pulling punches, especially in mixed company, but it’d been a while since he'd directed such cutting comments his way. 

That was fine though; it gave Lucifer the opportunity he needed to vent his own mounting frustrations, and if he couldn’t hug Alastor, if he couldn't brush century-old tears from his face in the way he’d spent the last six hours yearning to, then he was more than willing to lash out instead.

“Who the fuck pissed in your cornflakes this morning, asshole?” snaps Lucifer, shaking off Angel’s touch to lean into Alastor's space, helpless to the terrible pull of his gravity. 

Alastor dismisses him with a flick of his wrist. “Oh, calm down, I am simply making an observation.” 

Yes, because being told to calm down has ever generated the intended result. 

As Alastor pivots on his heel, Lucifer realizes those are meant to be his parting words.

Temper flaring, Lucifer jumps out of his chair after him, company long forgotten. He follows Alastor's coattails out of the parlor to catch him in the adjacent hall.

“Hey, wait just a — you know what, Al, you can take your observation and shove it. I really don’t need your attitude right now.”

“Ha!” Alastor halts abruptly, hair swaying over his sharp cheekbones as he turns halfway. “Oh yes, poor you. Unfathomably beautiful and powerful beyond reason. It must be so challenging for you, having to slum it with us degenerates.”

Lucifer’s face burns. “What the fuck, Al? Did something crawl up your ass and die this morning? What did I even — even… “ he pauses, words failing him. His anger dissipates like mist. “Wait…” he murmurs. “You think I’m beautiful?”

The lines of Alastor’s rictus grin tighten. “Focus, if you please, your Majesty."

How can he, when Alastor is telling him, albeit indirectly, that he's beautiful? Even after having seen his mismanaged wings, and the evidence of his diseased mind as he languished in bed.

Lucifer falls silent, unable to speak a word. 

Alastor thumps his cane on the ground impatiently.

“Yes, well, riveting conversation as always, your Grace," says Alastor. "If you are so out of sorts this morning, may I suggest seeking out your bleeding heart of a daughter to confide in? She is currently making a hazardous state out of the kitchen, and I myself am terribly busy today. Some of us have to earn our keep, after all.”

Lucifer perks up at Charlie's name. The idea of seeing her now is a balm to his frazzled heart. 

“Oh, alright," he finally manages. "Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Alastor says with a flippant hand wave. He flashes him a smile that is far too friendly not to be a threat. “Seriously. Don’t.” 

And then, he's gone, enveloped by shadows, and Lucifer can breathe again, if just barely. 

He's still a flustered mess by the time he finds Charlie. True to Alastor's word, the kitchen looks like a bomb had been detonated within. The stove, countertops, floor, and yes, even Charlie herself, is covered in flour. She's muttering to herself, a high-pitched pep talk from what Lucifer can tell, as she furiously whisks a bowl of chunky batter. Eden is here as well, lazily stretched out along the windowsill, speckled with flour as she sunbathes. 

“Dad!” Charlie says when she notices him. She abandons the mixing bowl on the countertop and turns to him, dripping whisk in hand. “I was just making pancakes. Or, uh, trying to,” she says sheepishly, glancing around the room. “No matter how many times I make them though, they never quite turn out like yours.” 

Lucifer offers her a lopsided smile, his eyes prickling, and God, he's such a wreck this morning.

He knows how busy she's been, taking on such a massive endeavor, and he hasn't yet been able to find that balance between being helpful and being in the way. Too worried about falling into the latter category, he often opts for making himself scarce.

Now, though, the answer is clear.

“You need some help, kiddo?

“Yes, please!" she says instantly. "That'd be amazing." 

With a twirl of his wrist, Lucifer summons aprons for both of them and enters the fray. Once he's close enough, he reaches out and swipes a smudge of batter from her cheek with his thumb. Charlie bats his hand away with a sweet laugh, all while Eden rumbles contently from her windowsill.

The scene transports him to better times, to a smaller Charlie, looking up at him with her big eyes like he could do no wrong, like he hadn’t doomed both humanity and everyone he loved. 

By the time they're done, their plates are stacked high with pancakes. Two mugs of freshly brewed coffee are added to the table to complete the meal. 

“Sooooo,” Charlie says, and her oh-so-casual tone triggers all of Lucifer’s internal alarms. “You and Alastor have been getting along lately.”

Lucifer stabs at a triangular piece of pancake on his plate with more force than necessary. “I guess,” he says. “Easier when he’s not being a giant prick,” and if he’s a little bitter from their earlier interaction, it’s not entirely his fault. 

“Dad, I’m serious!” Charlie admonishes with a breathy laugh. “It's been so nice having you both bury the hatchet. Don't tell him I said anything, but he’s been in such a better mood since."

"Oh yeah?"

"For sure!" Charlie says around a mouthful of pancakes. She swallows and adds, "He stopped by earlier and mentioned he was working on some more hotel ads for his broadcasts. Then, he talked to Eden for a little bit. She really likes him.”

The alarm bells are still ringing, accompanied now by giant red flags. “She sure does," he says.

“You know, I've never really seen her take to someone like that. Well, except for Mo — “

“So, tell me more about what's going on with you and the hotel! Anything I can help you with, Char Char?"

It's low-hanging fruit, sure, to throw Charlie off his scent by invoking the sheer enthusiasm and commitment she has towards these sinners, but Lucifer never claimed to be perfect. 

“Oh, well, I’ve actually been thinking of throwing a party,” Charlie says excitedly, “to celebrate our re-opening. I think it'd be a good way to get sinners in the door. Not to mention, they’ll get to see you, supporting the hotel!”

His stomach drops, like a sinking ship. The next time Lucifer smiles at her, it feels shaky on his lips. “That sounds like a great idea, sweetie.”

Charlie's brows furrow in concern, and Lucifer really is terrible at this — at lying, at being a father. Great at being a disappointment though. Five stars. 

“You know, you don’t have to be there if you'd rather not be," Charlie says. "I know it can be a lot of pressure; the crowds and — “

Charlie thinking that she needs to coddle him makes his skin crawl. “Are you kidding me?" Lucifer says with a big grin. "I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Charlie! You know, your mom and I used to throw these huge parties at the palace back in the day. I'm definitely your guy for this!"

His excitability, feigned or not, does wonders for bringing back her own. Not so terrible at lying then, not always. 

"Gosh, I'm so excited! This is gonna be so much fun!" She leans forward then to wrap her long arms around his shoulders and squeeze him tight. "Thanks so much, Dad.”

Lucifer nods and turns to hide his face in her hair.

Only then does he drop his smile.

Based on how they’d parted earlier, Lucifer doesn’t expect Alastor to come over that evening for tea. Still, he's more than a little disappointed come nightfall when the loveseat by the fireplace remains empty.

He finds himself restless again in a way that not even his nest or stolen articles of clothing are able to settle. He spends all of ten minutes, tossing and turning in his bed before dismissing the whole endeavor as futile.

He tries to walk it off but is limited in his pacing by the four walls of his room. The hallway allows for a more expansive stroll, he decides. 

When he makes his intentions known, Eden readily accompanies him. It's obvious why when Lucifer ends up at Alastor’s door like she knew he would. 

For the amount of times Alastor has appeared unannounced in his rooms, Lucifer is having trouble doing the same. It's presumptuous at best, to think that Alastor wants to entertain his company right now. Come to think of it, they’d always gone to Lucifer’s suite for their nightcaps.

Maybe Alastor doesn't want anyone near his private rooms. Maybe Lucifer is putting more meaning behind their interactions than is warranted. Maybe showing up at Alastor's door, seeking his company, is a disastrous mistake. 

Lucifer suddenly feels very foolish. 

He ignores Eden’s protesting hiss at his retreat, taking a step back and then another to turn and abandon his post. 

Darkness stops him. More specifically, a pool of it, spilling out onto the floor beneath Alastor’s door. It braids itself together into a humanoid mass and towers over Lucifer, unblinking eyes set into a glower. Its shoulders are hunched, hackles raised, at Lucifer’s encroachment on its territory. 

And whereas Lucifer would’ve flipped it off or ignored it before, he doesn’t now.

Maybe because he no longer sees a beast, a faceless void of deceit and decay, an amalgamation of Alastor’s horrific sins, but a terrified animal backed into a corner. 

He wonders if anyone in its century’s existence has ever shown it even a scrap of kindness. 

Or if it has only ever experienced pain. 

“Hey,” Lucifer says quietly. 

Predictably, it narrows its gaze at him. It’s not like Lucifer has ever done anything to engender its goodwill. 

“It’s okay,” Lucifer murmurs. “I won’t hurt you.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. 

The shadow bares its teeth at him, hissing like it'd been struck. Its limbs bleed across the wall, shadowy antlers extending, looking every bit like it is preparing for a fight until — 

“What are you doing?”

Alastor stands in the threshold of his doorway. 

He shoots his bristling shadow a sideglance before pinning Lucifer with a sharpened gaze.

“Oh, uh, nothing!" Lucifer deflects. "I just… came by to see if you… were around.” 

Alastor regards him silently, and Lucifer wills him not to question him any further because Lucifer can’t give him an answer that isn’t incredibly invasive. He can't tell him that he'd transversed his soul, that he'd lifted the curtain of the horror that is Alastor’s persona and found an abandoned child amongst the rubble. 

It's a vulnerability Alastor didn’t willingly share, one that could have him pulling away, and Lucifer can taste the impending loss in his mouth like ash. 

“I tried to say hi to your shadow,” offers Lucifer. 

“Whyever would you do that?” Alastor asks warily. 

“Well, I, uh…” Lucifer scratches his neck. “I’ve just been rude to it, you know. It hasn’t actually done anything to me, not directly, so… And also, it’s a part of you so I…” He shrugs loosely. “I figured I’d try to be nicer to it.”

Alastor's countenance relaxes somewhat, his suspicions assuaged for the time being.

“Ah, so you were paying attention to Charlie's debriefs on conflict resolution,” he says. “Wasted on my shadow here, I assure you. It will despise you all the same.”

That’s okay, Lucifer thinks. It’d hardly be the first time his efforts weren’t wanted. Perhaps, if he was someone else, that alone would be enough for him to stand down, but being unwanted hadn't ever stopped him before. 

“Shall we then?” Alastor says. He points his cane toward Lucifer — or more specifically, his hat. When he draws it back to his side, Eden is coiled around the staff. With no further prompting, Alastor sets down the hall at a leisurely pace.

Lucifer is left to watch the shadow disappear, inky blackness fading into nonexistence. 

Alastor is halfway down the hall by the time Lucifer bounds after them. Belatedly, he realizes that they are walking back to his room. 

“How was our darling daughter this fine day?” Alastor says conversationally. 

“My daughter, thanks,” Lucifer responds, “and she was great. I haven't really had a lot of one-on-one time with her lately so it was... really nice, you know? Just me and her."

"You certainly seem to be in better spirits."

"You could say that," Lucifer acquiesces. "By the way, she wants to throw a party to celebrate the re-opening of the hotel.”

“Ah, yes, she’d mentioned something to that effect earlier,” Alastor says. “I, for one, think a soirée sounds splendid. It’s been a long while since I’ve been able to indulge in a night of dancing. Rosie will be delighted as well.”

Rosie, Lucifer thinks. The Overlord that’d lent Charlie her cannibals to help defend the hotel.

“Is… she a friend of yours?”

“Yes. She's the finest overlord you’ll ever meet. Current company notwithstanding, of course.”

Ah, they sounded close then, and Lucifer felt no particular way about that. 

Alastor was charming in a distinctly psychotic way; it’d make sense that he’d have friends, both companions and admirers alike, outside of the hotel. 

As Lucifer lets them into his room, he feels the same sense of unease from this morning blanket the space. Alastor doesn’t seem to notice, never does. He's already off towards the sitting area, summoning a kettle and a moppet (which is totally not adorable) to pour them each a cup.

“Hey, uh,” Lucifer says, removing his hat to hang it by the door, “I just wanted to apologize for earlier.”

Alastor looks at him, both brows raised. “Whatever for?”

“I was… I didn’t sleep well last night. Or… at all, really." He flops into his armchair and scrubs at his face. "And even though you were being a dick, I know I was short with you and I — Al, I swear to the Seven Sins, if you make a short joke right now — "

Alastor snaps his mouth closed with a click of his teeth and a smile. 

“For fuck’s sake," huffs Lucifer. "I’m trying to apologize for snapping at you!”

“He says, snappily,” intones Alastor, speaking into his microphone for effect. 

And just like that, the tension melts away, and Lucifer laughs.

Alastor doesn’t, but his smile does smooth out into something more genuine. “As for earlier, rest assured, your Majesty, I rather enjoy your wrath. Getting under your skin is remarkably easy and quite entertaining." He spares the fireplace a glance. “Besides, we were both perhaps on the backfoot today. No harm done.”

“Yeah, you certainly seemed, uh…" Lucifer grapples for the right word, before eventually settling on, "displeased. Did I… do something or…?”

“Do not fret, Sin of Pride,” says Alastor with a grin. “I am delighted to inform you that the whole world does not revolve around you.”

“Alright, well, I take my apology back, asshole.”

“You cannot! You gave it to me, and now you’ll have to pry it from my cold, double-dead hands.”

“Keep talking, and that can be arranged.”

“You wound me, Sire!" Alastor presses a hand over his chest for theatrical flair. "And here I am, offering you both my illustrious company and tea. Why, without me, you’d have to get your own like some common peasant.”

“God, you’re so dramatic,” Lucifer says, but he's smiling. He feels lighter now, his apprehension pushed to the far edges of his mind. Alastor has the uncanny ability to clear the fog that so often settles around him.  

“So, a party," Alastor hums, considering. He reaches out toward him unexpectedly, palm extended. "Could I tempt you to a dance? You likely need the practice, after all."

Lucifer blinks at Alastor's hand. “Wait, you want to dance now?”

“If you're willing," says Alastor with ease. "Though, if you’d rather protect your pride, then by all means, refuse my offer.”

To accompany his words, Eden, the little menace, winds herself up Alastor's arm and flicks her tongue at Lucifer in challenge. 

“Hey, I can out-dance you any day, jerk.”

He reaches up, places his hand in Alastor’s —

And realizes that it's the first time he’s ever touched him like this, without anger, without intention to do harm. 

Between the preening and casual contact, Alastor has touched him plenty of times, but Lucifer has yet to reciprocate, aware of Alastor’s aversion.

But now, from one moment to the next, Lucifer questions how he's gone this long without touching Alastor. Even through gloves, through layers of fabric, it feels right.

Alastor’s talons close around his hand, and he plucks him effortlessly from his chair like a rose. 

He's cold as Alastor's magic, wisps of dark swampy green, dance over his skin, beneath his clothes. 

The next time Lucifer opens his eyes, they're out on his private terrace. There's a slight breeze out here, tinged with brimstone. It cards invisible fingers through his hair.

Heart fluttering, Lucifer loops his hand underneath Alastor's arm to place it on his back. 

“What on Earth are you doing?”

Lucifer looks up at him. “Uh, assuming position?”

“Ha!” Alastor snickers. “And you hope to lead, is that it? What an amusing sight that’ll be given your stature.”

“Oh, well, first of all, fuck off,” Lucifer says. “Second of all, I’m your king. Ergo, I'm leading. Deal with it.”

Alastor relents with a haughty sniff. “Very well," he says, and he snaps his fingers. A cathedral radio with the most gorgeous wood grain materializes on the nearby railing.

It blares to life, song already playing. 

“Strauss?” Lucifer laughs. “How predictable.”

“I am not taking requests or criticisms at this time," Alastor says briskly. He places a gloved hand on Lucifer's shoulder and bids him to begin. "Besides, Strauss is perfect for a waltz, you heathen.” 

A minute in, Lucifer can confidently say that Alastor is an excellent dance partner. He's light on his feet and follows Lucifer's lead, his every step with fluid grace.

Lucifer isn't too shabby himself, though, and he can tell that Alastor is impressed, can see it in his gaze that is much closer than usual. 

“Not bad,” Alastor comments once the song concludes. It's practically a ringing endorsement from Alastor. “But let's see how you fare with the Lindy Hop.” 

“Oh, you're so on,” Lucifer says as the music segues into something more upbeat.

Except this time when he moves, Alastor doesn't follow. 

“Ah ah, I've indulged you plenty,” Alastor tsks. “It’s my turn to lead.” 

Too bad Lucifer is feeling playful and uncooperative. He keeps his hand at Alastor's back and tries once more to pull Alastor along. “Come on, Al, why switch up what's working?"

Alastor isn't having it though. His arm is swallowed by shadows all the way to his shoulder only to manifest itself beneath Lucifer's own. Alastor's hand rests against Lucifer's upper back in triumph. 

Lucifer rolls his eyes, grinning. "Spoilsport," he says, but he concedes. He lifts his hand higher, too high to be proper, and wraps it around the base of Alastor's neck, tugging him closer with the help of his angelic power. 

And when their legs cross, and they both stumble, Lucifer laughs. 

As they dance, Lucifer flushes with happiness. He can feel it, the memory of this moment, planting its roots within his soul. He cherishes it already, grateful he'll always have it within reach to cradle close to his heart.

Chapter Text

Lucifer had spent so many decades locked in his palace that he'd felt more like a stranger than Charlie's father the first time he'd walked into the Hazbin Hotel. 

They'd gotten reacquainted some in the past few months, Lucifer learning all sorts of new and interesting tidbits about his darling daughter. However, one thing had remained a constant since her youth: his little girl never did anything in half measures.

Stubborn like her mom and hopeless like her dad made for a locomotive with no breaks once inspiration struck. 

Not two weeks after Charlie had voiced the idea, the hotel was decked out in full glam.

Lucifer had utilized his angelic powers for the more extravagant features, such as the swan champagne fountain that served as the lobby's centerpiece, but he couldn't take all the credit for the decor. The rest of the staff had pulled their weight — begrudgingly, sure, but there was a fondness in their exasperated mutterings as they set to their assigned tasks. 

Alastor had taken to his own with gusto, pleased as punch when Charlie had approached him about outreach. The Radio Demon would never pass up an opportunity to put on a broadcast. 

In the weeks leading up to the event, Lucifer had spent his days, ready and waiting for anything Charlie asked of him, and his evenings with Alastor, practicing his footwork out on the terrace. 

It isn't until the day of the event, with nothing left to keep his hands busy, that Lucifer finds himself consumed with dread. It dawns on him like an ominous sunrise that he's going to be in a room full of sinners for the first time since the exterminations began; that he's going to show his face to those he'd condemned twice over, his only flimsy defense being that the ends justified the means.

The truth was no better. He had no intention of confessing that he was so wretched, so aggrieved and grief-stricken and bitter, that he'd left them to the fate of the exorcists with hardly a word spoken on their behalf.

And now he was meant to click glasses and engage in small talk with these same sinners he had sentenced to a permanent death. 

It was a nightmare — further recompense for his sins.

And the only way to avoid it all was to let down his only daughter.

Again. 

“Oh dear, I can see you're thinking again. Really, your Majesty, you've been so terribly ambitious lately.” 

Lucifer's head snaps to the side to find Alastor descending the grand staircase in the main lobby. Any previous thoughts, spiraling or otherwise, turn to dust at the sight of him in his slim-fitting, onyx black suit layered over a crisp maroon shirt. 

More than ever, Lucifer is reminded that he has a type.

Tall, dark, lethal, gorgeous, and so much more than the sum of their scars. 

“Wow,” Lucifer breathes, struck dumb. “You look great.” 

Alastor’s lips curve in a preening little smirk. “Naturally,” he says and, yeah, that checks out. Alastor was a lot of things, but he never did seem one for false modesty. 

A sharp gaze appraises him in return. “You clean up nicely as well, Sire.” 

Lucifer laughs, and it's only partly self-deprecating. He’s not dressed much differently than usual, sporting his standard white slacks and button-up, but he did pass on a jacket tonight. “Thanks,” he says anyway. Before he can give any more weight to his burgeoning feelings of inadequacy, he says, “Excited to see your friend?” 

Alastor sighs. “Sadly, dear Rosie couldn't attend.”

Lucifer would like to go on record that he had absolutely nothing to do with that. 

“Oh?” Lucifer prompts. 

“Apparently, she has a few rowdy cannibals on her hands," Alastor explains with a vague gesture. "I pity the demons that prevented that woman from a night of socializing and dancing. And meeting you, of course.”

“Me?” Lucifer can't hide his surprise. “Why would she — ?”

"Yes, why would she want to meet the infamous King of Hell, I wonder.”

Is it pathetic that Lucifer wonders if Alastor ever talks about him to Rosie? If she knows anything about him at all other than the embellished rumors that circulate Hell? 

Alastor adjusts his bowtie in the brief lull of conversation, and Lucifer blames his intrusive thoughts when he envisions himself adding it to his nest. 

“So,” Lucifer says with a small cough, "uh, any idea who all is coming? I didn't actually look at the guest list.” 

“Oh, just a few other Overlords. News reporters. And whatever riff-raff that rolls in off the city streets. So, no one important, really.” Alastor surveys the decor of the lobby, eyelids lowered in silent judgment. “Saving grace, I suppose, that the Vees' invitation got lost in the mail.” 

“Yes, of course," says Lucifer. "A complete oversight by the Hellish postal service, I'm sure.”

Alastor scoffs. “As if I would risk their invitations in the mail. I sent it by carrier pigeon, of course. Only the best for the Vees.” 

That'd be fine and dandy and all if hell-pigeons weren't notorious for both their lack of flight and lack of direction.

“Al,” Lucifer chides, lips twitching. 

Alastor bats his eyes coyly, but he can't pull off the innocent look no matter how hard he tries — which is not very hard. 

A low whistle interrupts them, and Lucifer turns to find Angel Dust at the bottom of the staircase, a prominent brow fitted over his appreciative gaze. “Don't you two make a pretty picture,” he says.  

The spider demon is adorned in black sequins, snugly fitted to the curves of his body. Gold bracelets jiggle up and down all four of his arms, complimenting the glint of his smile. 

“Uh, thanks, Angel,” Lucifer says, smoothing out the imperceptible wrinkles of his dress shirt. “You look great, too.” 

Angel slicks back his hair fluff and shoots him a wink. “Thanks, doll.” 

A thump draws Lucifer's attention back to Alastor, who flashes them both a sharp smile. “Yes, well, now that pleasantries have been exchanged, shall we hunt down our fearless leader? It is nearly time to — "

As if summoned, Charlie whips around the corner in a blur, Vaggie close on her heels in a classy blue cocktail dress. 

“Sorry! Sorry—I'm here,” yells Charlie. She skitters to a stop in front of them, cradling a stack of pamphlets to her chest. Her butter blond hair is pinned up rather elegantly, her coat and slacks nearly as dark as Alastor's. They're dressed so similarly, in fact, that Lucifer would not be surprised if she'd received pointers on her attire from Alastor.

She wears her excitement on her face as earnestly as she does her nerves as she deposits the pamphlets on the nearby table and joins their little circle. Husk and Niffty arrive shortly after with only minutes to spare. 

With all present, Charlie inhales a deep breath, trying and failing to mask her quiet sniffle. Her eyes are glassy with unending gratitude. "Guys," she says.

"Oh, here we go," Husk grumbles. Angel nudges him with an elbow, eliciting a quiet grunt from the barkeep.

Unimpeded, Charlie continues, "I just — you know, I couldn't do this without you — all of you. I know it hasn't been easy, and I know that a lot of people don't believe in what we're doing here. But this is my home, and you — " she says, looking at each of them, "you are my family. So, just — thanks for being here." She wipes at her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve. "Now, group hug!" 

Hands resting on the apple of his cane, Lucifer stays back and watches them all laugh and squeeze each other tight. He smiles through his unease, brimming with pride for his little girl and the beautiful, inspiring woman she turned out to be.

He feels Alastor at his side, mirroring his stance. 

Maybe even mirroring his pride.  

“They're a good group, huh?” Lucifer murmurs.

Alastor hums noncommittally. “One could certainly grow accustomed," he allows.

Lucifer smiles and gifts Alastor with a small hip check. “You big softie.”

“No need for such vicious insults, your Majesty.” Alastor sniffs.

A small commotion alerts them to shuffling at the front doors. Behind the opaque glass, bustling shadows move about restlessly as sinners wait to be let in. 

Charlie walks past their group with a determined stride. She places her hand on the doorknob and turns to them with a beaming smile.

"It's showtime."

Lucifer would like to think he does well for the first half of the party.

He keeps to the perimeter for the most part, desperate not to draw attention to himself, but it finds him anyway. Sinners approach him by the dozens, asking for autographs or pictures, imploring him to regale the gory details of his battle with Adam. Others give him a wide berth, huddling in groups in his periphery, but he can hear the vitriol in their whispers even from afar, cursing the devil that led them astray, that is to blame for their misfortune, both in life and in death. 

It takes a long while for the shock of his presence to wear off. Once it does, however, he’s quickly dismissed as unremarkable. Curiosity sated, sinners indulge instead in food and drink. 

No longer the center of attention, Lucifer is able to watch the proceedings from a safe distance. 

The part of him that remains steadfastly aware tracks Charlie’s movements. It's made easier by Eden's proximity to her, his snake curled comfortably in Charlie's jacket pocket in lieu of a napkin. 

Lucifer knows that Charlie can handle herself, has been all this time, but he doesn’t know these people, and he certainly doesn’t trust them with her safety.

Vaggie doesn't either, it seems, as she never strays far from Charlie's side.

It's reassuring, to know that so many hold Charlie's well-being in such high regard. 

Attention drifting, Lucifer clocks Angel and Husk flirting outrageously at the bar — or Angel is, and Husk is enduring with minimal fuss.

Niffty, the little menace, is chasing bugs with a sewing needle almost half her size beneath the skirts of their guests, pausing occasionally to ask them extremely invasive questions like an oddly endearing bridge troll. 

And then, there's Alastor, playing every bit of the host and thriving by the looks of it. His tone is friendly, his gestures flamboyant with his usual showmanship flair, but there’s a threatening edge to his grin that sends demons of lower constitutions scuttling. Even though he's engaged and seemingly distracted, Lucifer can sense Alastor’s hypervigilant shadow, roaming the room with purpose. It occasionally brushes against Lucifer’s own awareness, forcing Lucifer to suppress a shiver each time.  

Alastor's eyes find his just as he finishes his conversation with Zestial and Carmilla. He nods toward the dance floor, wordlessly challenging him, and Lucifer grins.

As Lucifer makes his way to him, he thinks, for a brief moment, that he’ll actually get through this party without making a fool of himself.

Which is when, of course, it all goes wrong. 

“Excuse me, pardon — “ Feedback trills sharply as Charlie taps on the mic situated on the small elevated stage. The music playing in the background fades into low static. “Oh, hi there, sorry. I just wanted to thank everyone for coming! I know most of you are here for the free food," she laughs at her own joke and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "But I really do hope some of you will stick around afterward to check into the hotel. We have a lot of fun here! And I really believe in what we’re doing here, and you know, so does my dad," she smiles at him, and he goes completely still. "So, we hope that's enough to — "

“He’s the one that agreed to exterminations in the first place!” a sinner calls out from the crowd. "Why would he sign us up to be slaughtered if he believed in redemption?"

And there it is. The question on everybody's mind, the one he has no answer for.

He can feel every pair of eyes on him now, hot on his skin, casting their judgment. Here he stands, the most hated being in creation, in all of Heaven, Earth, and Hell, and isn’t he utterly despicable that he would dare show his face here as if he belonged? His utter ignorance, his audacity, is laughable. 

“Uh, well, I’m sure he had a good reason — “

"Let's hear it!"

Charlie falters, “That’s not what we’re here for — “

But they're not listening. In fact, they're moving closer to him, crowding him —

Or, maybe that's just the walls, closing in on him.

His forehead prickles, his body reacting to the perceived threat. His vision bleeds red. He tampers it down, not wanting to prove himself to be the monster they know him to be, but it's a lie, a lie, a lie. 

"Hey, fuckfaces, we're here to talk about the hotel," Vaggie snaps. "Take that shit elsewhere."

From behind him, he hears Angel, calling out, "Who wants some free drinks and a dance from yours truly?"

All hands are on deck now, it seems.

Perhaps, it's because they can hear his mind splitting at the seams, warring between burning this place to the ground and setting himself aflame.

His teeth feel too sharp in his mouth, fire heavy on his tongue. He’s going to ruin this, he’s going to ruin everything, just like he always does. 

There’s sharp, nasty laughter at the sight he must make, bested by his own brain. He can't take a single breath, and the irony of that is that he doesn’t need to.

And wasn’t that a horrifying thought, that he could continue the rest of his miserable, godforsaken existence like this, unable to breathe and unable to die, gasping for breath for all of eternity — 

Black drifts into his field of vision. 

He looks up at the familiar face and croaks out a helpless, “Al?”

Yes, Alastor is there, stepping directly in front of him, blocking the crowd of sinners from his view.

“Your Majesty,” says Alastor quietly, for his ears only. “We are in a rather precarious situation. Do me a favor and listen to my voice, won't you?”

It’s an easy enough request. Alastor’s voice is one of Lucifer’s favorite sounds, after all.

He manages a tiny nod.

“That's a dear. Now then, place your hand on my arm. I’m going to escort you out and all you’re going to do is smile.” 

Lucifer complies, fingers curling around Alastor’s elbow. He digs his claws in too harshly, he thinks, but all Alastor does is pat the back of his hand. “We’ll get you set to rights in a jiffy.”

Alastor continues to talk as he guides him from the crowd, sinners parting for the devastating duo that is The Radio Demon and The Devil, despite the latter malfunctioning. It’s cooler here, out in the hall; quieter, too. The tightness of Lucifer’s chest eases just enough for him to suck in a hungry gulp of air and allow his lungs to inflate. 

When they stop walking, he can feel Alastor’s hands on him, guiding him to sit. 

Any waning panic resurges, rising in his throat like bile, the moment Alastor moves away from him. Lucifer reaches out for him, fast as lightning, to grip Alastor’s wrists with enough strength to break the delicate bones, if Alastor had only been human. 

“Stay,” Lucifer pleads, and another wave of panic crashes into him, sweeping him away, because if he loses Alastor right now, if he’s left alone again, he might —

“Breathe, your Majesty.”

He’s trying, he swears. 

He watches, wide-eyed and panting, as Alastor removes his hands from his person to take them into his larger ones. 

Alastor stares at their joined hands with a contemplative look on his face. His gaze clears as he makes a decision, and he looks up at Lucifer. “I understand what I’m about to say may sound inappropriate given the circumstances, but I assure you, I only aim to help, your Majesty. I need you to remove your shirt.”

“What?” Lucifer laughs wetly, borderline hysterical. 

Alastor never drops his smile, but it does soften somewhat at the edges. “Trust me, my liege.”

Lucifer isn't really in the state of mind to do anything else. 

With shaky fingers, Lucifer unbuttons his shirt. He shrugs the fabric from his shoulders and lets it fall, down his arms, past his gloves. The shirt catches on the edge of the stool he sits upon. 

His skin is clammy when the cool air hits it, and he shivers violently. 

It’s horrible how untethered he feels, how exposed he is with his jagged scars on display. 

Alastor is shuffling behind him, out of his sight, out of his reach, and Lucifer would beg him to come back, if not for the last scrap of his mangled pride.

He fists his hands in his pants, tearing at the fabric, eyes tightly closed as he tries to work himself through the worst of his panic. He feels it though, the gust of air that grazes his cheeks as something sweeps over his head. 

Fabric then, smooth yet firm, hugs his body. 

He latches onto the feeling, scrambling, and nearly sobs in relief when it tightens, binding him to this moment before he can drift any further. 

His breath stutters, hitching in his throat, and he releases his first long exhale. 

“That's it,” croons Alastor.

Lucifer opens his eyes. He peers down, in a daze, at his torso. 

“A… corset?”

“Indeed.” 

The bodice is longer on his body than is typical, sitting high on his breastbone. It is clearly tailored for someone taller than him.

“This is yours?” Lucifer realizes aloud. 

“Yes," Alastor says. "Corsets are excellent for proper posture and back support. But they also provide a deep pressure that I find comforting."

It is comforting, Lucifer thinks. The tightness of it makes him hyper-aware of his movements, of the shape of his body, of where he exists in space. He can feel the breath in his lungs, the rise and fall of his chest, and the warmth of Alastor's presence at his back.

He realizes distantly that they are in Alastor's room. He tells himself to ask him later about the swamp. 

Alastor pulls tight at the laces, forcing another exhale. Lucifer's eyes burn. “Did I… did I ruin Charlie's party?”

“Nonsense,” Alastor says. “For Hell's standards, I'd say it's going quite well. What's some discord among sinners, after all? And you, well, it looked like you dismissed their chatter as the meaningless drivel it was, not deigning such speculation with even a comment. And now, we'll return to dance. Nothing at all amiss.” Slender fingers weave into his hair, supporting his head. "Chest up."

Lucifer follows Alastor's direction without hesitation. He places a hand on his hip and straightens his spine, breathing in deeply as Alastor tugs on the laces. The boning sinks deeper into his skin. 

Once the corset is secured in place, Alastor picks up his shirt and passes it to him. Lucifer slowly pulls it back on. The cotton texture caresses his skin, draping over the corset.

He takes another breath and attunes himself to the power humming beneath his skin. 

He can do this. He can withstand a measly hour or two at a party after all he's endured. He's the King of Hell. He wouldn't break for his Creator, and he certainly wouldn't fold to sinners who didn't know him from a sack of rocks.

Their opinions hold little weight to him. He would be damned all over again if their dislike of him dissuaded him from supporting his daughter.

Absolutely fucking not. 

Before he can stand, a gloved hand appears in front of his face. 

When Lucifer takes it, Alastor sweeps him up onto his feet. The movement is so swift that Lucifer has to catch himself with a hand to Alastor’s chest. 

He looks up into his half-lidded sanguine eyes. 

And oh, he's still falling, isn't he, further and further into the abyss. 

“Alastor…” he whispers the name from his lips. “Thank you.”

Alastor stares at his face searchingly, eyes drifting along its edges. His lips part to speak, and Lucifer holds his breath. 

But no words come.

Instead, Alastor takes a step away from him. Lucifer's hand slips from his chest. 

He places Lucifer’s other hand at his elbow then bends forward in a slight bow, gesturing with his cane toward the door. “Shall we return, your Grace?”

The way Lucifer's heart stammers and stutters has nothing to do with his earlier panic.

This time, when he reenters the fray, Lucifer hardly notices the eyes on him. He's far too preoccupied, his gaze on Alastor the entire time. 

Chapter Text

The swamp in Alastor’s room turns out not to be a swamp at all but a bayou.

Lucifer can recall with impressive clarity the prissy little sneer on Alastor's face when he'd corrected him, haughty in his superior knowledge of wetland habitats. 

At the time, Lucifer wasn't sure if he was ever going to be allowed into Alastor's rooms again, certain that he'd squandered his opportunity to appreciate the aesthetic amid his nervous breakdown. Fortunately for him, Alastor was a prideful bastard, and all it took was Lucifer's incorrect terminology for Alastor to extend another invite, eager to showcase the sluggishly flowing water of his bayou that swamps, often stagnate, notably lacked.

Following his exile, Lucifer had been barred from traveling to Earth on his own accord. He'd been limited to the occasional summons that left him more bitter than anything, fielding repulsive, self-serving demands for riches or revenge. Eden had been the last time he'd been allowed unlimited access to Earth, back when he’d spent his days creating monarch butterflies and lilypads and bindweed (he genuinely apologized to gardeners for that one). 

His soul's rendition of Eden is the closest he's come in several millennia to experiencing the wonders he'd been forced to leave behind, but this... this pocket dimension is something else entirely.

Spanish moss winds itself across oaks and bald cypress trees, petrichor heavy in the air and pleasantly accompanying Lucifer's every inhale. The humidity is warm and wet against his skin, and sweat beads at the nape of his neck. Crickets chirp unseen and lightning bugs hum as they drift by him, creating an ever-present soundscape, not unlike the sinner who owns this space. 

If Lucifer closes his eyes and sinks his claws into the damp soil, he can almost pretend he's not in Hell. 

He'd known Alastor was powerful but to carve this piece of Earth and splice it into his rooms, to maintain it, is a feat that has Lucifer pondering the details of Alastor's deal. 

Lucifer could certainly do something similar if he had any reference, but the Eden he knew no longer exists. His memory of it is all he has left, and he holds it far too close to his heart to will into this plane, where anyone could stumble into it.

This is why Lucifer is so humbled by Alastor allowing him into this space. Alastor can brush off the gesture all he likes — he's allowed his pride, after all —  but he must know what it means to Lucifer, to be here. He must feel how their relationship is changing, quietly, beautifully, terrifyingly. 

Neither seems particularly keen to draw attention to it though, not even when they begin alternating rooms for their nightcaps. 

He imagines that's why Alastor isn't surprised to find him curled up at the base of a weeping willow tree after today's earlier development.

Charlie had come to them in the parlor, sobbing so hard, her chest heaved with each breath. Immediately, Lucifer had begun to search her person for injury, for the cause of her distress. When he couldn't find the source, he took her face in his hands instead and begged her to tell him what was wrong. 

Cheeks rosy and wet, Charlie managed to relay the news delivered to her from her angelic confidant. 

Sir Pentious had been redeemed. 

Lucifer had consoled her in the moment, in awe of his daughter who had succeeded, who had, against all odds, proven Heaven wrong. 

But now, away from prying eyes, Lucifer can truly process the implications. It's all he can do to stay upright, to not give into his childish whims and curl into the fetal position. He can't say the same for Eden, who remains back in the main sitting area of Alastor's room, coiled up on the mantle in stasis. 

Redemption is possible. 

Hell was not the last stop — or, at least, it didn't have to be. 

Which meant all those exterminated souls could've been saved...

And if that isn't enough to cripple him, Lucifer must also consider that if everyone can be redeemed, can ascend from the fiery pits of Hell to Heaven’s golden gates, then it's possible that this could all end in the same manner in which it began. 

With him, alone. 

Lucifer wraps his arms tighter around himself with a shuddering exhale.

“It's a wonder you get anything done with how often you engage in self-recrimination,” comes Alastor's reprimanding tone. “Had I known when we met how devoted you were to sabotaging yourself, I wouldn't have lifted a finger for the cause.” 

Alastor, for his part, has been extremely tolerant of him these last few weeks. From his depression to his panic attacks to what's quickly becoming an existential crisis, Lucifer isn't sure what it is that keeps Alastor around. 

Though he has yet to be kicked out, Lucifer can't imagine he makes for very stimulating company at the moment. 

He scrubs at his face. “Sorry, Al,” he sighs.

Alastor raises a brow. "For?"

"I'm not usually so needy,” but he is. “It's just been a tough few weeks,” millennia, really, “and I don't want to impose or, you know, wear out my welcome,” but you make me feel like I'm not alone, and I just want to cling to you. 

“Is there something about me that has given you the impression that I would keep you around if I found your company cumbersome?” 

“No.” Lucifer laughs quietly. “No, I just… feel like such a mess lately.” 

“Only lately?”

Lucifer huffs. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Lucifer's defensive tone doesn't deter Alastor in the slightest. "Oh, come now," he says. "I think we've spent enough time together these last few months for me to know that your current state is rather status quo. This is what you are. A frustrating dichotomy of power and helplessness." He scoffs. "I can safely say that you are the most absurd creature I've ever met.” 

Despite the words spoken, Alastor sounds undeniably fond. It makes it difficult to parse whether Alastor is complimenting him or insulting him. “Uh, thank you...?" Lucifer frown deepens. “Unless you're being a dick in which case fuck you.” 

A subtle flush warms Alastor's cheeks, and Lucifer cackles in the face of his consummate audacity. How dare he accuse him of being polarizing as if Alastor himself isn't a walking, breathing paradox?

The same sinner who lashes out with reckless abandon to then come to his rooms to tend to every feather of his wings; the same sinner who has a hairpin trigger temper but has given him an inconceivable amount of grace. 

“Knowing what you know now,” Alastor says, putting a stop to his inner musings, “do you regret it?”

Lucifer doesn't bother feigning ignorance. “It depends on the day,” he says. It may not be the most satisfying of answers, but it is his most honest one. “Hard not to. I only ever see the ugly so...”

"Yes, well, I imagine that is part of your punishment,” Alastor considers aloud. “I'm sure it comes as no surprise that I don't.” 

“Don't what?”

“Regret the choices I've made," says Alastor. "The ones that have led me here.” 

"Even though you suffered," Lucifer pushes back for a reason beyond his comprehension. "Even though she suffered because of what others chose to do with their free will?”

It's a risk, he knows, looping Alastor's mother into any conversation, but maybe a part of him wants Alastor to snap at him. It would be easier, he thinks, and far more familiar to be on the receiving end of scorn than of compassion. 

It's all for naught as Alastor doesn't take the bait. “Yes,” he says simply. “Because the alternative is that we live and die in chains, nothing more than lobotomized puppets on strings, and that's intolerable. Not even deals strip an entire person's being in such a way. You'd be hard-pressed to find someone who'd willingly surrender their autonomy for the illusion of happiness, even in a place as miserable as this.”

Lucifer inhales sharply. 

An illusion is as apt a descriptor as any, and Lucifer would go as far as to argue that the first humans weren't the only ones afflicted by it. He sees it in himself when he watches his angelic counterpart, bumbling and fussing about, almost always with a smile...

And yet he knew, even then, didn't he? That something was horribly wrong. 

Alastor looks out over the bayou now. “You know,” he says in a whisper reserved for secrets. “This is where I hid the bodies.” 

“Come again?”

“Of the men I murdered,” clarifies Alastor. “Their final moments were spent here. It's so dense and isolated, why, one couldn't hear anything for miles!" Alastor looks wistful, as if he's recalling a cherished childhood memory instead of a string of gruesome, serial murders. “You should have seen them, my liege. How they would beg and plead for mercy. Their futile struggles were quite entertaining!”

Lucifer stays quiet, waiting, because he knows Alastor quite well by now, and so he knows there's more here than just casual bragging. 

His suspicions are confirmed a moment later when Alastor sobers and confesses, “It's also the place where I died.” 

Lucifer clenches his jaw, teeth grazing his lower lip as he wills himself not to interrupt, lest he miss the moral of this story.

Alastor holds out a hand and black shadows weave together to form a jar. Once opened, he maneuvers it to catch passing fireflies.  

“As I lay dying, I knew it was pointless to plead for my life. There is no hope here. That was rather the point. And so I let the earth take me without much of a fuss." Alastor caps the jar and turns to him. "And yet, even with the copious amount of blood that soaks this unhallowed ground and every root beneath it, it's quite lovely here, don't you think?”

Before he can answer, a glow catches Lucifer's eyes as a firefly bumbles by, drawing his gaze.

When he looks back to Alastor, he finds the sinner on his knees beside him, the slender line of his body stretched out toward him. In his palm rests the jar of fireflies. 

They flutter around, illuminating the contained space, harmonious in their silent light show. 

Reverent, Lucifer lifts his hand to the glass. 

“It's extraordinary, is it not?” murmurs Alastor. “How beauty persists even in the most hopeless of places.”

Lucifer looks at him. Their faces are remarkably close. "It is,” he whispers back. 

Alastor's own gaze drops to the jar in his hand. “Keep this," he says. "As a reminder that not everything is as ugly as Heaven would have you believe.”

Heat pricks at Lucifer's eyes as he takes the jar into his hands, this precious gift — proof that such wonderous things can exist even in Hell. It's a piece of Alastor, of his sanctuary and his cemetery, that Lucifer could keep forever if he so chose to. 

But as he watches the flickering fairy lights blink in and out of existence, it's impossible for him to ignore the tender ache in his chest. 

With no preamble, Lucifer lifts the lid off the jar. 

The fireflies rise to the opening, drawn to freedom, and disperse into the night, rejoining their companions. 

His chest swells with panic, words rushing up his throat as he hurries to explain himself for what must look like blatant disregard for Alastor's gift. 

But his inner strife is silenced when he finds Alastor next to him, surveying his face with a small smile.

“Quite,” Alastor says. 

Chapter Text

The news of Sir Pentious’ redemption spreads through the bowels of Pentagram City like hellfire.  

As it turns out, salvation is a powerful motivator. Sinners flock to the hotel in droves, wrought with hysteria, reeking of desperation. They clamor at the doors at all hours in search of the promised land — or at least, for the secret that will allow them entry. 

What should be a moment of triumph for the hotel, for Charlie’s dream, takes an ugly turn when the denizens of Pride Ring are made aware of a single glaring issue.

That they actually don’t have the answer. 

Not Heaven, not Charlie, and certainly not Lucifer. 

Based on the countless lives they’d lost in exterminations, it's clear that death by angelic weaponry isn’t enough to warrant a soul’s retrial.

Which begged the question: why was Sir Pentious’ soul worthy of ascension and not any of the millions that came before him?

Was it his martyrdom? Putting himself in the line of fire to save his friends, to fight for a cause he deemed noble? Would he still have ascended had he not perished that day? Could good deeds alone meet the arbitrary requirements for redemption or was dying (again) a necessary evil?

It’s a lot of guesswork and, as expected, not many sinners are willing to risk permanent death without a guarantee. When their hopes of an easy ticket to Heaven are dashed, violence seems to be the default response.

A flashy flex of Alastor’s and Lucifer’s combined demonic forms is enough to send the majority of them scurrying under the rocks from which they came. 

Others, even without assurances, are motivated enough (or desperate enough) to partake in the hotel’s redemption program.

That means the Hazbin Hotel suddenly has fully occupied floors.

After months of lackadaisical work, their little core crew is now rife with tasks.

Niffty has rooms to turn down. Husk has a constant flow of patrons to serve. Angel has tours to lead between his shifts at the studio.

All the while, Alastor ensures the staff's success by tending to the backend of the house; everything from securing sponsors to keeping a stocked inventory.  

And Lucifer, the resident expert in productive procrastination, tries not to get sidetracked by adding little details to the hotel's decor that absolutely no guest will notice. 

If nothing else, it serves as a suitable distraction for him whenever he's not playing role of facilitator between Charlie and Heaven. 

By now, he's met Emily. She and Charlie have been working tirelessly to determine the criteria for redemption in hopes of better streamlining the process. Members of the higher court seem reluctant about a joint venture between Heaven and Hell, but they are willing to give Emily leeway for the time being.

The little seraphim reminds him of Charlie in a way, eager and optimistic, but Lucifer cannot confidently say that he trusts her  — or any of Heaven's agents, for that matter. 

More than ever, he is grateful for Vaggie. His fellow fallen is happy to accompany Charlie to the embassy in his stead, to keep a keen eye on things. Lucifer himself has no interest in playing nice with the same beings who tore his wings from his joints and left his back a heap of sinew and golden ichor; who ignored his cries and prayers under the guise of penance.

Who kicked his broken body from the steps of the pearly gates down into the depths of Hell.  

Several millennia later, the scars remain. 

He doubts that Heaven would harm Charlie — not physically; they don't want a war on their hands, after all, and they know she's the line.

He'd reinforced her as such the moment Adam overstepped and targeted her. 

But he also knows that wounds don't have to be physical to cause irreparable damage.

As the meetings are currently confined to the Embassy building in Hell, Lucifer's concerns are assuaged, at least temporarily, knowing that she is out of their immediate reach.

Lucifer spends the time she's away awkwardly fumbling through conversation with sinners who don’t know what to make of him. He hadn't realized how comfortable he'd gotten with their little group, because suddenly, it feels like he’s putting on a mask again, and it's awful. As tempting as it is to isolate in these moments, he endures. He’s here for Charlie, and she needs him more than ever with her dreams on the cusp of becoming a reality. 

It’d be easier if he still had Alastor’s company to look forward to, but a hotel full of new guests makes for a busy hotelier. Add that to the sudden uptick in Overlord meetings, as his peers are, unsurprisingly, peeved about redemption possibly interfering with their soul contracts, and it means Alastor has significantly less time for dancing, for conversation. 

Lucifer tells himself that the ache in his chest isn’t because of how deeply he misses him. 

He doesn’t even have Eden to talk to most days, as she has practically attached herself to Alastor’s side as of late. The only reason he knows Alastor comes home some evenings is by her slithering into his suite in the middle of the night. 

In the absence of Alastor’s company, Lucifer finds himself visiting the garden in his mind with more consistency. His angelic counterpart is as happy as ever to see him, talking a million miles per minute as he shows him his latest creations. Lucifer smiles and engages when prompted, but he can't help but feel like something about this place is suddenly lacking. For the first time since he can remember, Lucifer finds that he’d rather be out in the real world with his daughter and her infectious cheer, with Alastor and his God-awful smile...

Patience has never been a virtue of his, but he tries— tries to wait out the rush, the abrupt change of pace, all while hoping it'll settle down in the near future and things can return to how they were before. He doesn't want to take Alastor's attention away from hotel business, but for all his tarnished angelic grace, he's painfully human in the way he clings to connection, in the way he thrives on it. When he's left alone to his own devices for too long, things get... bad. 

He holds out for a few weeks, living off passing conversations and fleeting glances, before he surrenders to his impulses and sets down the long hallway that connects their suites. He can only hope that Alastor is both in his room and in the mood for company.

They don’t even need to talk. Lucifer is more than happy to sit across from Alastor and sip tea in front of the fireplace in silence if Alastor prefers. Any bit of kindness and company to stave off the loneliness. 

To his surprise, it's not Alastor he finds, but Eden, alone in the middle of the hallway.

The last he’d seen her, she’d been sleeping in a nest of Alastor’s hair, but when Lucifer scans their surroundings, Alastor is nowhere to be seen. 

He slows as he approaches her, growing increasingly puzzled as she hisses at her shadow on the wall in front of her. 

It’s strange, no doubt, but he supposes after thousands of years of solitude, she’s bound to seek out her own entertainment when bored, just as he is. 

Except... 

That's not her shadow on the wall, but Alastor's, he realizes when he draws closer. 

It's shapeless in its current state, just a small mound near the baseboard, but Lucifer recognizes its aura now that he's close enough. 

He stops to observe the interaction from a short distance, equal parts intrigued and wary. It can’t seriously maim Eden but given that she's been his sole companion for countless years, Lucifer is understandably protective of her. 

She seems entirely unfazed by the shadow's prickly countenance, however.

Lucifer watches as she lifts the tip of her tail behind her in a small wave. If he didn't know any better, didn't know that Eden was an absolute sweetheart, he'd think she was taunting it.

Alastor's shadow blinks owlishly at the display, looking more bewildered than threatened now. 

There's a long pause.

And then, a little tendril branches off from the heap of living darkness, and waves back.

And Lucifer... his heart flutters with abject wonder. 

As if it’d heard, Alastor’s shadow freezes. It turns its narrowed gaze to him, hackles immediately rising to the perceived threat that is his existence. It takes on its more humanoid shape to tower menacingly along the wall. 

Lucifer glances at Eden then back to the shadow.

“Did you…” He offers it a cautious smile. “Did you want to play with her?”

Lucifer doesn’t know how much Alastor's shadow understands, if it can comprehend language or if it reacts solely based on tone and body language, but it’s not snarling at him anymore, and Lucifer takes the victories where he can.

With a snap of his fingers, Eden vanishes in a poof of wispy smoke and scarlet glitter. 

She reappears a moment later as a little shadow snake on the wall. 

Alastor’s shadow startles, bristling in surprise. It’s intrigued though, Lucifer can tell by the hunch of its shoulders as it sinks back down to the floor and considers Eden’s shadow form with notable interest. 

Eden flicks her tongue at it, resulting in a pupilless blink. 

Then, it sinks into the baseboards and vanishes. 

Lucifer sighs, his hopes for a peculiar, tentative friendship dashed, but his disappointment is short-lived when Alastor’s shadow manifests a few feet down the hall from them. 

It tilts its head at Eden, and when she darts toward it, it vanishes again, along the decorative trim of the ceiling. 

Lucifer watches as the two engage in this shadowy rendition of hide and seek, and when he laughs at their display, he's a touch breathless. 

By now, he is familiar enough with the shape of Alastor's soul, the green tint of him, that he senses his arrival even before Alastor steps into his periphery. 

“You know,” Alastor says simply.

Lucifer doesn't bother denying it. “I didn’t mean to...“ is what he says instead. 

Alastor places both hands, one over the other, on the mic of his cane. His posture reads nonchalant but the tightening of his grip betrays him. “That is a startling invasion of privacy.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,“ Lucifer tells him. “I… sometimes, I see things without meaning to. But I didn’t —" He turns to face him. "Al, I would never— ” 

"Never what?" Alastor wonders aloud. "Snoop into a lowly sinner's history without their knowledge and express permission?"

Lucifer closes his eyes, and that's a mistake. His brain, ever helpful, conjures Alastor's sweet face and his little limbs, wracked with violent tremors. He sees himself, reaching out to protect, to shelter, but unable to do so; unable to do anything but watch Al’s humanity be torn apart.  

“I’m sorry,” Lucifer breathes. 

Alastor’s lips curl. “Spare me your pity, your Majesty.”

“I don’t pity you.”

Didn’t he, though? Didn’t his heart clench in sorrow, in compassion, having witnessed the injustices Alastor had suffered?

Alastor gives him a withering look, and he does — wither, that is. 

“Care to try that again, Father of Lies?" croons Alastor. "And this time, with feeling!”

There was a time, not long ago, when Lucifer found it strangely comforting to be on the receiving end of Alastor’s ire.

Their arguments were as disastrous as they were invigorating. After centuries spent in a fog, to feel something other than apathy was somewhat of a novelty. Alastor had compelled him to fight back long after Lucifer had thought the fight had left him; he'd forced him to become a more active player in his life instead of a mere spectre spectating from the sidelines. 

Back then, he knew where he stood with the sinner demon — knew both his role and his lines. 

He doesn’t anymore. 

And now, when Alastor is angry with him, it just hurts. 

He hears Alastor exhale a long-suffering sigh. Slowly, the tension between them recedes like a tide.

“Let’s discuss this further in private," says Alastor. "Join me for a drink, would you?”

Lucifer doesn’t mask his surprise at the invitation. He’d presumed Alastor would feel too violated to entertain his company.

Alastor counters his surprise with a vicious smile.

“Some proper reparations are in order, don’t you think?”

Ah. Now Lucifer understands.

His reckoning is upon him.

When Alastor pivots and starts toward his rooms, Lucifer is in no rush to follow. He opts to watch their shadowy counterparts for a while longer. The two entities are completely captivated by each other, lost to their fun, oblivious to how everything is about to change. 

When he finally sets out towards Alastor's rooms, the well-worn path feels rather treacherous.

As powerful as he is, there is little that invokes genuine fear, but it's there now, pooling in the gaping chasm in his chest, slipping between the divots of his ribs. 

He’s woefully unprepared for this conversion. He considers, for a brief moment, disappearing into the ether. He could delay this talk between them, hold onto this lovely pocket of coexistence they've stumbled upon, and Alastor would understand, wouldn't he? That Lucifer doesn't want to talk because it's always words that sink ships?

Alastor is many things, but stupid is not one of them. When he puts two and two together, will he decide that this — whatever this is between them — that it's all too much? 

Lucifer usually is too much — too much to handle, too much to care for, and so insufferably needy that it's exhausting. 

And yet, even knowing the most likely outcome, Lucifer can’t find it in himself to flee.

Resigned, he crosses the threshold into Alastor's domain. His feet move him instinctually towards the mantle as Alastor sets his cane and monocle in their proper places.

Lucifer lights the fireplace with a blink and revels in the immediate warmth, taking comfort where he can. 

This space is so familiar now, a home away from home, and a part of him thinks it's a good idea to memorize its corners. And so he does, brushing his fingertips tenderly along the worn edge of the mantle. 

Alastor knows him well enough by now to know he’s uneasy, but like the proper sociopath he is, he lets him sit in it for a while, taking an exorbitant amount of time tending to imaginary wrinkles in his coat before he deigns to join him by the fireplace.  

He lowers into his seat with such grace that even Eden would be jealous. 

Then, horribly—wonderfully—finally, Lucifer has the Radio Demon’s full attention. 

“Before you share your piece, I would like you to tell me exactly what it is you saw regarding my shadow.”

It makes sense that Alastor would spare him no mercy here. If Lucifer has transgressed against him, he wants to know every facet of information on how, spoken out loud for posterity. 

Lucifer glances toward the opposing seat — the cushioned armchair that he has, without even realizing it, begun to think of as his.

His own nerves keep him standing.  

“I saw you — as a child. In… in a closet. And there were… people fighting outside the door.” Even now, Lucifer can hear the terrifying rattle of the slitted panels. “And then I saw your shadow and just knew," he says. "It's a manifestation of your fear... your anger and hate. Your grief." 

Lucifer doubted Alastor even recognized the semi-sentient entity that'd been born that night. It's likely it'd only made itself fully known once Alastor had arrived in the Pit.

The shadows from the fire dance over Alastor’s face, casting its contours in darkness. "I see," is all he says.

His gaze is unreadable as he reclines into his chair, steepling his hands at his pointed chin. The silence stretches on, only broken up by the crackling of kindling and the low hum of static. 

Then, "There is a word for people like my father," Alastor says, peering into the flames. “A phrase coined long after my death, but I feel like it's quite apt: a family annihilator.” 

Lucifer doesn’t need to be familiar with the newfangled terminology of human psychopathy to parse the descriptor.  

I'm so sorry is on the tip of his tongue, but he knows better than to say that, he knows. 

“You were so small,” he says instead, as if that's somehow better. 

“Children often are.” Alastor's gaze slides to him. “And some monarchs.”

It is entirely on-brand for Alastor to make a short joke at a time like this. "Did he try to kill you, too?"

"Yes. He'd been laid off after indulging in one drink too many on the job. He'd come home that same day and used us as a target for his rage, as he so often did." Alastor props his elbow onto the arm of the chair and rests his chin atop his slender fingers. His gaze is piercing. "He killed us all that night."

It is a nod to Lucifer's strength, to his sheer restraint, that he stays away from Alastor then. "That's... you died that night? But... you're not—that doesn't—"

“The paramedics brought me back. My dearest mama, however, was beyond saving. My father took the coward’s way out, of course." And here, Alastor smiles. "But he can’t evade me forever.”

The disclosure itself doesn't come as a surprise; Lucifer had assumed from prior conversations that Alastor's father was the last on his metaphorical hit list. 

With context, however, Lucifer can't say he blames him in the slightest. 

It’s a terrible kind of emotional whiplash when Alastor says, “Now, that’s quite enough of that. I believe it's your turn.” There's a subtle crimson glow in his gaze. “Tell me what Eden is to you.”

Lucifer shies away from his stare. He looks out instead into the bayou but even the thought of standing still under such scrutiny is intolerable. "Can we walk?" he asks.

Alastor considers the request for a beat, then stands from the chair, gesturing. After you is the silent reply. 

The air feels different the moment the hardwood beneath Lucifer's feet transforms into damp earth. The change in humidity is immediate, the buzzing louder surrounded by crickets and the blinking lights of fireflies. Algae gather on the outskirts of the water out in front of him, and Lucifer stares at his distorted reflection until Alastor joins his side.

“I’m sure you know my legacy," he begins quietly. "The snake in the garden.”

“Quite familiar with the tale, yes.”

"That was me before... before Eden, before she even existed, before I...." Lucifer's heart is beating a bruise into his chest. It's making it exceptionally difficult to speak. "When I Fell," he tries again, and his body aches with the memory. "I... shattered? I don't know how else to explain it but there were pieces of me everywhere. I was able to put back some of them but others... never quite fit the same. They became their own entities... the Sins." He sucks in a breath. "Eden is similar in a way, except with her... she still fits. But I've chosen not to put her back with the rest of me." And then, with a shaky exhale, Lucifer says, "Eden is quite literally a harbinger of my will. My free will.”

In the silence that follows, Lucifer does everything he can to fend off the encroaching panic. 

“You gifted humanity free will," Alastor finally says, "just to cast out your own?”

“I…" Lucifer swallows. "Yes. With her separate, I can control her better. It keeps me from being so... reckless. Most of the time.”

Another beat of agonizing silence. “Mon serpent sought me out from the beginning," Alastor notes. "Why, the little darling hardly leaves my side." 

Lucifer closes his eyes. “I know." And because he can't bear it any longer, he splutters nonsensically, “You should have more ducks here.”

There's a pregnant pause, and Lucifer isn't sure if Alastor will grant him the transparent reprieve.

He nearly melts in relief when he does.  

“The water here isn’t the most hospitable,” says Alastor. “And in my experience, this dimension comes as is. Historically, whenever I try to add wildlife that wasn't already here to begin with, they more often than not end up as shadow poppets. Quite lovely in their own right, but sadly, they do not fit the aesthetic.”

“Wouldn’t want to ruin the aesthetic,” Lucifer mutters, but he's practically bursting at the seams. Was it truly possible for them to move on without addressing the implications of his disclosure?

He risks a glance up at Alastor. “I could try? If you don’t mind.”

Alastor offers him a lazy shrug. "Oh, why not."

Lucifer's inner turmoil actually quiets some. Maybe, just maybe things would be okay; maybe this could still be salvaged, after all. 

With a snap of his fingers, a yellow duck appears, loitering in the water with a pleased quack. 

It’s so stinking cute that Lucifer wants to coo at it, but he doesn't want Alastor to dismiss it for being too adorable. Aesthetic, and all that.  

“Ta da!” he says with a healthy flair of theatrics. 

Alastor rolls his eyes and then gives the new addition a once-over. “It’ll do. If nothing else, it'll be excellent fodder for the 'gators.”

“The what now?”

A strangled noise draws their attention. Before either can react, flames billow out from the confines of the unassuming duck's beak. Lucifer watches in horror as the nearby lilypads meet their abrupt, fiery end, disintegrating into ash. 

Oh, fucking Hell. 

He hadn't meant to summon a duck of the fire-breathing variety, and now, he's gone and destroyed a part of Alastor's bayou, of his well-loved and protected dimension. 

Lucifer begins to stumble over an apology that will never be enough —  

— and is instantly silenced by Alastor's peels of laughter.

“Ha, ha, ha! Oh, how delightfully chaotic!” Alastor says. Crackles of radio static, pitched high with joy cut through the space; it's a beautifully discordant sound. “Perhaps, it stands a chance out here, after all."

Lucifer's breathing slows. “You… you like it?”

Alastor nods, and he's smiling at his flawed creation like it's perfect.

“It’s lovely,” Alastor says. 

“Oh."

Lucifer swings around with wide, wet eyes, to stare at the sinner bathed in mist and encircled by flickering fire lights and...

He doesn't stand a chance, does he?

Because faced with the most hauntingly gorgeous eldritch horror in creation, how in everything unholy can he do anything else but stand there and fall in love? 

Without conscious thought, Lucifer reaches out, taking hold of Alastor in any way he can. Then, he surges forward to kiss the smile of his mouth. 

He meets the soft skin of his cheek instead.

Alastor's hands are on him suddenly, curling around his hip and his shoulder to pull him closer, and his touch is sunlight, is sweetness, is Heaven. 

Except Alastor isn't pulling him in. 

He's pushing him away. 

Lucifer drops his hands at once, stumbling back.

The distance between them now feels insurmountable. 

“Fuck,” he wheezes around the word, his lungs tight. “I’m sorry, I didn't mean to — I misread — fuck.”

Lucifer has never seen Alastor look so flustered, but he is, looking anywhere but him. 

Helplessly overwhelmed, Lucifer can only laugh.

“Your Majesty, I'm... flattered,” Alastor says and each word feels like the sharpened edge of angelic steel, digging right into his heart. "But as I’ve said before, romantic entanglements aren’t in my repertoire.”

Alastor is absolutely right. He had said that, and if Lucifer had thought he was the exception, if he'd taken the friendly touches and the lingering eye contact and those moments where it felt like they could be so much more, to mean something, then that was entirely on him. 

Alastor had even allowed him the chance to retain some dignity after he'd all but revealed his feelings with Eden as a vector, but Lucifer couldn't take the gentle rejection for what it was. He had to put Alastor in a position where he'd had to physically push him away. 

“Yeah, of course, Al— Alastor. I knew that.” 

Alastor hesitates. “I apologize if I led you to believe that — “

Lucifer feels a thread, snapping along his shoulder, as he quite literally begins to lose his composure. Under the weight of his mortification, his glamour is beginning to unravel. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for! That’s on me, for making a pass when you don’t…” Lucifer rubs a hand down his face, semi-hysterical laughter spilling into his palm as his eyes burn because he’s such a fucking idiot. ”Fuck, I'm hopeless. Just like, a lost cause, patient zerooooo — “

“Your Majesty — “ 

“But hey, at least you have new material for your broadcast, right? King of Hell makes an absolute fool of himself — “

“Lucifer.”

Another thread snaps, severed by how lovely his name sounds in Alastor’s mouth.

"I have grown fond of our time spent together,” Alastor says. “In my experience, romance… complicates things. And I’d rather not jeopardize our friendship in such a way.” 

Lucifer nods aggressively, taking a step back, away, he needs to get away, get away, before he implodes. “Yep. Of course. Totally.” The duck disappears in a sparkle of red as Lucifer banishes it from the premises. “Uh, anyways, I should get going.”

Alastor steps forward. “That’s not necessary.”

Lucifer steps back. “I know, but I really don’t want to make things any worse right now. Besides, we both have an early start tomorrow.” Lucifer smiles at Alastor and hides the rising bile in his throat behind his teeth. “But I’ll catch you later, pal. Right?”

Alastor’s smile doesn't fall, not entirely, but it does shrink until it's only a thin line across his face. His gaze is, as ever, indiscernible. “Of course,” Alastor says. "... Goodnight, my liege."

Lucifer portals out of there so quickly, it's dizzying. He lands unceremoniously on the hard floor of his room, out of sight, and wheezes. As his skin begins to tear away, revealing splotches of blinding light, of the celestial monstrosity residing beneath, Lucifer finally allows his first sob to break free. 

“Fuck,” he whispers.

Chapter Text

He’s not avoiding Alastor as much as he’s simply tending to the damage wrought upon his human form. 

It’d taken days to painstakingly sew himself back together. Even then, it was a patch job at best.

When he refuses to leave his room those first few days, he tells himself it's because he doesn't want to expose others to celestial leakage. 

It's a convenient excuse, and he's able to convince himself that it's for the best, this distance. At least, for the first week. 

It's self-preservation that compels him out of bed that eighth day, knowing that he's bound to invite questions and concerns to his door if he squirrels away any longer. 

He just needs to show his face around the hotel, so that he can prove to Charlie he hasn't fallen into another spell, that he's fine. 

He ties his waistcoat extra tight around his torso to reinforce his stitches. The fabric stretches taut and provides him some semblance of relief. It's not nearly as comforting as Alastor's corset, but it'll have to do since Alastor isn’t around to pull him back together this time.

He is not exaggerating when he says that the only reason he hasn't left the hotel entirely is his daughter.

If not for her, he would’ve fled to the palace days ago.  

He regrets moving into the hotel in the first place.

He hadn't needed to stay. He could've swept in and saved Charlie from Adam, could've helped rebuild the hotel, and then returned to watching his daughter from a safe distance.

It would've been better for all involved, he thinks, if he'd not played at having a family again, at trying to ingratiate himself to another flock. 

He would've saved himself so much strife if he'd just committed to a life of solitude. 

Though, is it really his fault, when the illusion of happiness had been packaged so prettily?

“Dad!” 

It's not until that very moment that Lucifer realizes he'd portaled, unthinkingly, right into Charlie's designated office space.

Papers are scattered everywhere, showcasing an obscene amount of colorful renderings of their little group. Vaggie, snoozing away on the nearby chaise, is half-covered in them.

When he meets Charlie's gaze, he can tell by the strain that she's been at it for days, hyperfixating on one thing or another, and she really is her father's daughter, isn't she?

“I'm so happy to see you!” She envelops him in a bear hug that steals his breath away. “Is everything okay? I didn't want to bother you in case you needed space — “

“You could never bother me, apple pie,” Lucifer assures her, leaning back to catch her eyes. “And I'm okay! Just needed to... recharge a bit! I suppose I've been feeling a little burnt out... I'm sorry — "

"Dad, please, no, don't apologize. You're definitely not alone in those feelings." She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, stifling a frown. "Vaggie and I have been talking about hiring some more staff, actually. I mean, everyone has been so, so great, but I know it's been taking its toll. Even Alastor has been off the past few days.” 

Lucifer smothers his questions as soon as she says Alastor's name.

He wants to ask how Alastor is doing. Does he seem tired? Upset? Does he miss him as much as Lucifer misses him? 

Fuck —

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea," says Lucifer steadily. "I'm happy to vet any candidates, if that'd help? You girls have enough on your plate."

“Really?" she says. "Oh, that'd be so wonderful!" 

She turns and snatches up a folder from her desk then pushes it into his hands. "I already have a list of applicants — “ 

“When did you — “ 

“I figured we could use people with some kind of business experience? Preferably the Non-Overlordy kind; one is plenty!”

That they can definitely agree on. 

Lucifer flips the folder open and scans the extensive list of names. Pride stirs alongside his apprehension. He is forever amazed by his baby girl's ability to multi-task.

“Got it," Lucifer says. "Yeah, I'll look these over this week.” 

“Great! Thanks, Dad.” She smiles at him, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. “Are you sure everything else is okay?” She presses gently. “You know you can talk to me. About anything.” 

Misery might love company, but Lucifer staunchly refuses to drag his daughter into his romantic life (or lack thereof). She'd already played the role of mediator between her own parents, and he's not going to make her do it again with her father and pseudo-mentor. 

Still, the offer is a thoughtful one, and his next breath is a bit shaky. 

“Yeah, I'm okay," he lies. 

And because his life is just one cosmic joke after another, that's when he feels the first wisps of Alastor's magic, all dry ice and smoke.

His attention zeros in on the distinct clicking sound of heeled boots in the adjacent hall, drawing closer. 

Dread blooms in his chest. Lucifer is categorically not stable enough to see Alastor right now, to have to force polite conversation in front of Charlie.

As it stands, he's hanging on by a thread in the most literal sense.

He needs to leave. 

“Anyway, I actually think I’m going to take a walk. Get some fresh air!" Lucifer smiles. "I'll be back in a few hours, alright?"

Charlie perks up at that. “A walk sounds lovely! Exercise is a fantastic natural mood booster! Did you know that — "

"Sure do, Charlie!" Lucifer says hurriedly. "Bye, bye now!"

And just as the familiar whiff of Alastor's magic brushes against his soul, Lucifer flees. 

He walks until he finds a literal hole in the wall that functions as a bar.

The intrinsic healing properties of angelic souls mean that Lucifer has to toss back drinks faster than his system can flush them out. It doesn't prove to be much of a challenge in his current state.  

It's ironic, he knows, that at a time when he wants nothing more than to be alone, he finds himself tucked away in a crowded dive bar in the entertainment district. 

He prefers it (in this moment, at least) to staying in the hotel where he feels so terribly transparent. Even his rooms hold no comfort for him, not now, when they feel more like a prison of his own making than a home. 

So, a bar it is, surrounded by people who know him as the King of Hell, the most hated being in all of creation, and not as Lucifer or Dad, and that's better, he thinks.  

He draws attention, simply by nature of who he is, but his title affords him a wide berth.

The gawking and whispers though, those linger. It's hard to escape them when Lucifer quite literally has eyes and ears everywhere. Usually, he can tune it out without much difficulty, but other times, like now or like the night of the party, he feels bombarded by the sheer volume of scorn and mockery. 

"Oh, shit, is that the King? What the fuck is he doing here? Is the Queen with him?"

"Nah, didn't you hear? She left him ages ago. Maybe, he's in the market for a new one?  Ooo, ask him, ask him!" 

A nasty laugh. "If he couldn't even please his first wife enough for her to stick around, what makes you think he can please me? Hard pass."

Lucifer despises sinners out of principle, violent ungrateful lot that they are, but at least here, he can mask his burgeoning feelings of inadequacy behind his distaste.

No such luck were he to return to the hotel given how soft he'd grown for Charlie's particular group of friends. 

With a sigh, he resumes his goal of trying to drown his sorrows, fighting with his angelic constitution every step of the way. He's always been one for fruitless endeavors, he muses.  

A sudden hand at his shoulder has him bristling, his forehead prickling, because who dares — 

“Heya, Short King — whoa! It's just me!" 

The moment feels syrupy, individual seconds stretching on for too long. There's a disconnect, somewhere in his brain, making his thoughts fuzzy around the edges. 

It takes an abnormally long time for Angel’s voice to register in his brain.

A friend, not a foe. 

“Angel,” he says with a slow blink. He tampers down his power, burning beneath his epidermis, and his vision clears. “Sorry about that.” 

Angel laughs and brushes him off. “No harm, no foul." He lowers his pink cocktail onto the bar and hops onto the stool beside him. “Didn't mean to spook ya. Just didn't expect to find you at one of my haunts. Doesn't really seem like yer scene.” 

“It isn't,” Lucifer allows. 

As much as he'd sought to avoid this very thing, it's hard to find fault in Angel’s presence.

He actually leans into the familiarity, and his loneliness abates some. 

“So, what’d the Hell did Smiles do?"

Lucifer deflects, “What makes you think he has anything to do with this?" 

“Well, having eight eyes helps, but really, I think I only need one to see how ya two have been sulking all week.” 

For all his flamboyant flair, playing the role of the ditzy sex worker, Angel is incredibly perceptive. Makes sense that the spider demon would be such an expert in body language.  

Lucifer signals for another drink. 

“He… nothing. He didn't do anything wrong.” 

“Oh? Then how come you're here instead of — hey, scram!” Angel slams two hands on the bar top, startling Lucifer. The demons who'd gotten too close without Lucifer noticing, salivating for any bit of gossip, scurry like flies.

“Tryna have a private conversation here, geesh." Angel clicks his tongue and lowers back down to his seat to fix Lucifer with his attention again. “Anyways, wanna talk about it?”

Lucifer exhales, “Not really, no.” 

He's grateful when Angel doesn't push. “That's alright, Luce. I ain't gonna force you or nothin’, just know I'm here if you need it. Husky gets all the credit, bein’ a bartender and all, but I'm actually a great listener.” 

Lucifer offers him a rueful smile in exchange for the kindness Angel's under no obligation to give. 

“It was me."

"What?"

“I'm the one who…" Lucifer sighs, "fucked things up. Caught feelings, and he didn't— doesn't feel the same.”

Angel’s expression is dubious at best. “I see.”

In the momentary lull of conversation that follows, Lucifer wonders if it's time to leave.

“Ya know,” says Angel, stopping him. “I knew Alastor before he came to the hotel. Not just from his creepy broadcasts, either. He'd been hangin' round Vox back then. So, given my ties to Val, I actually saw that strawberry pimp around quite a lot."

Nausea churns in the gnawing pit of Lucifer's stomach. 

He still doesn't know the exact details of their history, but even the thought that Alastor had potentially entertained the advances of someone like Vox and not him… 

Lucifer drains the rest of his drink in one go. 

“Were they…?” Lucifer asks, forever a glutton for punishment. 

Angel doesn’t make him say it, merciful soul that he is. “Nah, they weren’t lovers, but not for lack of Vox tryin'. They were business partners, to start. Friends, even. But then, Vox began to pursue Alastor and well... the Vees aren’t really known for takin' No for an answer.”

Fire flickers in Lucifer's throat. “What is that supposed to mean?” he hisses. 

Lucifer doesn't concern himself with the personal dealings of Overlords, but if he finds out that Vox had forced himself on Alastor in any way, he'll — 

“Whoa, whoa, it's nothin' like what you're thinkin', Luce. Let's not go nuclear, alright? I actually like this bar.”

“How was it like then?”

"Well," says Angel, "if I recall correctly, Alastor laughed in his face and told him, in no uncertain terms, to fuck off. The whole thing kinda just spiraled from there."

Lucifer's anger recedes, and he considers how greatly his experience differed.  

Alastor had had every opportunity to mock him for his feelings, to tear him down, but he didn’t — he wouldn’t — not about this. How in Hell is Lucifer supposed to stop loving him when Alastor shows him this type of consideration time and time again? Who would’ve thought that his vengeful sinner was so inanely patient? Who else knew that his multifaceted deer was loveliest when he dropped the Radio Demon persona?

“Luce.” 

“Ah, sorry.” Lucifer clears his throat. “Zoned out a bit.”

“Nah, that’s alright," Angel says. “Look, the point of tellin' you all this is that I’ve known Smiles a long time, and I’ve seen how he is with people… and he’s real different with you. Since ya walked into the hotel, he’s been vyin’ for your attention. So, he might just need some time, y’know? To figure out what he wants. I ain't convinced your feelings are as one-sided as you think they are.”

Angel's words feel hollow when the memory of Alastor turning his face away from his kiss is still so achingly fresh in his mind.  

Lucifer can't honestly say he feels any better, by the end of this exchange, but he smiles at Angel anyway. He's grateful that Angel cares enough to say anything at all; that he'd bothered to lend an ear when he could've avoided him and the dark storm cloud hanging over his head entirely. 

“Thanks for the chat, Angel,” he says, moving to stand. “Probably about time I head back.” 

Angel nods. “Sure thing, let me just cash out, and I can walk ya home.” 

“That's not necessary. Don't end your night early on my account.” He pauses, considering. “Unless you wanted me to walk you back?” 

Angel scoffs. “Nah, I wasn't askin' for my benefit. I'll have you know I'm an excellent shot.” 

“I'm sure having six arms helps,” Lucifer laughs. “Still, Charlie would kill me if you didn't make it back to the hotel in one piece so be careful?"

“Aw, the Devil worried about lil' ol' me." Angel's voice pitches low and sultry like it does when he's teasing, and Lucifer rolls his eyes. "Don't fret, Short King. I'll make it back safe and sound," he assures with a salute. "See ya later, Luce.”

Even with the reassurance, Lucifer hesitates when he gets to the door. In his peripheral, he watches Angel rejoining a small circle of sinners, all grins and exuberant energy. He takes note of a familiar face among the group (Cherri, he thinks her name was).  She'd helped with the reconstruction of the hotel. To this day, she sporadically visits to hang out with Angel. 

They're in good hands with each other, he knows. He also reminds himself that they'd survived this many years without him. They certainly don’t need him to babysit them. 

With that, he leaves.

The smothering heat of Hell descends, oppressive compared to the blanketing warmth of Alastor’s bayou.

He considers portaling back, but he wants to delay his return as long as possible. 

His wish is granted, for once, when he passes a group of huddled bodies by the alleyway and overhears the taunt, spoken from the lips of a sinner. 

“What a joke,” the words are spoken under their breath, all vicious mockery for the benefit of their friends. “Waltzes in after fucking off for centuries and expects everyone to kiss his ass just because he beat The First Man. You know, it’s no wonder the princess is so fucked in the head. Poor thing has mommy and daddy issues.”

There is a chorus of muffled snickers.

Then, a roar of booming thunder. 

The sidewalk splinters, crackling, and small chunks of cement turn into shrapnel. 

When the sky rips open, acid rain floods the streets of Hell. 

It does nothing to damper the fire between Lucifer's sprouted horns.

Distantly, Lucifer realizes his eyes are bleeding. 

He turns his head to look over his shoulder at the pack of terrified sinners. His neck cracks in a way that would make Alastor proud. 

His voice is unfamiliar to his own ears, featuring the echos of the damned, when he opens his mouth and hisses, “What did you say about my daughter?”

Lucifer stumbles through the front doors of the hotel, drenched in blood. 

It's late; closer to morning than night. The lobby is deserted, the bar unmanned — not a forsaken soul in sight. 

Good. 

No one needs to see him like this. 

And oh, what a sight he must make, standing in the middle of a hotel built upon the tenants of forgiveness, of redemption, with blood soaking into the threads of his shirt and drying tacky on his skin.

He blames the ever-growing deficit that is his working memory for forgetting a crucial piece of information: Alastor does not sleep. 

“Your Majesty,” Alastor greets from behind him. 

Dread trickles inside Lucifer’s hollow chest, dripping much like the blood from his claws onto the lobby’s oriental carpet. 

He turns around to see Alastor, standing a respectable distance away. The sinner is as striking as ever, effortless in his wicked allure, from his dark piercing eyes to the static that filters his voice into something unique. 

It does not go unnoticed that Alastor has reverted to using his title to address him.

Alastor's sharp gaze appraises him. “Busy night?” 

Lucifer isn't sure if he can keep himself together long enough to get through a conversation with Alastor, but he'll damn well try. 

“You could say that,” Lucifer manages. “Yourself?“

Alastor shrugs. “No more than usual,” he says. 

The conversation is reminiscent of a time before he and Alastor had navigated the once unfamiliar terrain of friendship, when their conversation was often stilted in places. Before they’d become comfortable and familiar with each other. 

Lucifer hates every moment of it. 

It's sheer exhaustion, he thinks, weighing heavy in his bones that keeps him in place. 

“If you’re so inclined,” Alastor says when the silence drags on too long, “perhaps you can indulge me with the details of your most colorful evening. I do believe we're a bit overdue for a nightcap, don’t you?”

It’s too soon, Lucifer immediately thinks. 

He knows this, simply by how much he wants to shrivel away at the thought of having Alastor close to him again — so close, yet decidedly out of his reach.  

He wishes he could bypass the anguish of heartbreak and jump right into numbness.

That way he could return to Alastor’s rooms and reclaim his armchair. He could cozy up by the fireplace as Alastor poured them tea and pretend he hadn't confessed without words, pretend that he was more than an amalgamation of frayed threads and grief, stuffed inside of a human guise. 

But he can't... 

“Probably best if I turn in for the night,” says Lucifer. “Like you said: it’s been a long day.”

Lucifer catches the slight droop of Alastor’s ears followed by a violent twitch as they stiffen again. 

“Of course,” Alastor says with his signature showman’s smile. “Another time, then.”

Despite his unbothered tone, Alastor’s body language is all over the place. His taut ears, as if he’s forcing them upright, the brittle edge of his smile, the faraway look in his eyes. 

He looks… distressed. 

The thought is sobering. 

Lucifer's hurting, sure, but the last thing he wants to do is to hurt Alastor in return, to punish him for rebuffing him. Alastor might not return his romantic inclinations, but he knows him well enough to know that Alastor enjoys his company. He's certain of that, knows that Alastor would not bother with him otherwise.

Lucifer has no interest in withholding his friendship, of ruining it like a certain Overlord did, in retaliation for Alastor drawing his line in the sand. 

But if Lucifer hoped to maintain an ounce of his sanity or dignity, he has his own boundaries he must adhere to. 

He needs time — time and space to repair the tears in his paper-thin heart. 

Just some distance until the pain wasn’t so raw, until he no longer felt Alastor’s hands on his body, pushing him away, rejecting all the love that Lucifer had to give but that no one seemingly wanted; until the moment no longer played on loop in his mind like some unconventional torture device. 

“Look, Alastor,” he breathes.

Later, when he’s alone, he’ll stop breathing altogether to forgo the ripple of pain that reverberates in his chest with his every exhale. 

“I’m not upset or angry with you. I mean it,” he adds at Alastor's skeptical brow raise. “I’m just… kind of a mess right now. If that wasn’t obvious." He gestures to his stained clothing for corroboration. “I just need a few weeks, I think, to… move on, you know? It’s still kinda fresh for me. This isn't me, ending our friendship or anything, but I just need... some time. If that's alright." 

Alastor is generally hard to get a read on, and that remains true, even now, as an entire cocktail of emotions passes over his face.

They move too quickly for Lucifer to pluck one out from the mess and give it a name. 

“Take your time, your Grace. You know where to find me when you're ready," Alastor says. He tips his head toward him in a rare show of genuine subservience. His hair casts a shadow, shielding his eyes from view. “Give mon serpent my regards, will you?”

This time, it’s not Lucifer who disappears in a smoke show of power, but Alastor, enveloped by his own shadows. 

Alastor's words sink into his skin and his sense of dread returns, washing over him like a tide as he makes his back to his rooms, knowing what awaits him. 

The magic powering his wards is oppressive as he approaches his suite. It presses against him for a moment, smothering him, before folding to his familiar signature and allowing him entry. 

The doors open to a room composed of greyscale and muted shades of red. It looks so dreary in here, hollow like a rotting willow. When Lucifer steps inside, he finds little comfort within these four walls. 

At the sound of the doors closing behind him, Eden lifts her head from the coil of her body, perched high up on a shelf on the opposite side of the room. She blinks blearily at him, the barest hint of acknowledgment flickering in her vertical pupils.

He can hardly look at her. 

“Eden,” he implores. “Sweetie, I’m so sorry, please, just — “

She doesn’t even let him finish before she turns her head back around in dismissal.  

It would’ve been so much better if she’d just lash out at him already. He wants it, wants someone to tell him that he’s fucked this up, just like he fucks up everything remotely good in his life. But it's not his fault, not really; he just wasn't built right. His Creator had forgotten something important, They must have, because no one could be this fundamentally wrong. 

With unimaginable effort, Lucifer drags himself to his workbench, magic removing the blood from his clothes with a thought. He bypasses his bed without so much as a glance. Laying beside Alastor’s forgotten bowtie seemed like such a violation now, pining after someone who didn’t want him, but he couldn’t bear to remove it from his nest just yet.  

When he sits on his stool, his wings unfurl on their own accord. 

They’re tattered like his pride and plucked raw in places. The sting of them is wonderfully distracting, but it's not nearly enough.

Lacking every ounce of desire to create, he folds his arms atop his desk and lowers his head in search of rest. 

When he opens his eyes again, he’s in Eden. Above him are the drooping leaves of a willow tree. Behind him, the sturdy bark.

And sitting next to him is his younger self.

The angel is missing his smile, and it may as well be a gaping hole in his face for how unusual it is. 

“I’ve been thinking…” his angelic self says by way of greeting. “What’s the point of all of… this —” he gestures vaguely around them, “if there’s no choice?”

Lucifer has lived through this conversation many times past, and he must truly hate himself. Why else would his mind force this conversation on today of all days?

“I’ve been thinking of saying something to the humans," the angel continues. "Our Creator won’t listen. Nobody will listen…”

Lucifer's throat is dry when he speaks, his voice sounding as if dragged through gravel. “You could just leave it alone, too,” he whispers. 

His younger self doesn't answer right away. He sits there instead and plays quietly with a fuzzy caterpillar wrapped around his pale moon-white fingers, long before the hellfire had turned them black. 

The angel lowers his head to rest on Lucifer's shoulder. “It’s not right,” the angel finally says. 

Lucifer doesn’t reply. He knows his words don’t matter here. It’s already too late. Everything has already happened.

And this… this entire encounter is just the product of a fractured soul who couldn't let go of the past.

He doesn't say that though. He refuses to crush the dreams of an angel who just wanted to create beautiful things...

— and who wanted those beautiful things to choose their own paths. 

Lucifer drops his head to rest his cheek on the angel's downy hair, weaved with threads of spun gold.

“Will it cost me a lot?” the angel asks him. 

Everything, Lucifer doesn’t say as he begins to weep. It will cost you everything. 

Chapter Text

A new ghost awaits him the next time he steps foot in Eden.

Given how deeply Alastor has touched his heart, imprinting his mark on him without any effort at all, it shouldn't surprise Lucifer that his ghost would end up here, lovingly tethered to his soul. 

What is unexpected, however, is that Alastor's ghost is here when the sinner himself is still an active presence in his life. All of his other ghosts who visit him are remnants of people he'd lost to time, to strife or resentment.  

So, what does it say about his state of mind that Alastor is already here?

Lucifer shakes off the thought and allows himself this moment instead, where he can be with Alastor without consequence. 

As he approaches, he takes in Alastor's visage, lying peacefully across the grassy landscape. His eyes are closed against the sun that shines down on him, highlighting his skin's pigment and the auburn of his hair. His hands are clasped atop his belly, fingers intertwined, and he looks so serene in this moment, a pop of color amongst the earthy tones of the garden. He even comes with his own faint whisper of static, and Lucifer smiles wryly at his brain’s commitment to details. 

“Do you plan to join me or are you simply here to stare at me?” 

Oh, he has that same perpetually peeved tone, too. Lovely.

When Lucifer doesn't answer, a red sliver of an iris reveals itself. Amusement flitters through the crimson, sunlight glittering across blood. “Well?”

Lucifer's aggrieved mind is as convincing as ever, and he has to remind himself that Alastor is not really here, has to repeat the words like a mantra in his head, even as he lowers himself down to the ground to admire Alastor up close.

He finds himself hovering over Alastor, and the latter permits the touch, welcomes it even. It's another reminder that this can’t possibly be real. 

Though would it really be so bad if Lucifer pretended that it was? He could stay here, couldn't he, living out centuries in this little nook of his soul, playing house with Alastor’s ghost. He’d done it before, with Lilith, for years after she’d left, and it'd helped him at the time, had cushioned the brunt of his existential solitude. 

But it'd also had the consequence of leaving Charlie behind in the real world to handle Hell, and he couldn’t do that to her, not again, not now, not even for the facsimile of happiness. 

For a moment then—  just for a moment, he swears—  he'll stay and watch Alastor in wonder, tracing the gentle slopes of his face and the curve of his smile, and he'll pretend that Alastor loves him, too. 

Lucifer may be biased, but he has the thought that even as a ghost, as a fractured part of his soul, Alastor is breathtakingly gorgeous. 

1.

”I think…” Lucifer murmurs into the space between them. “I think you’re the love of my life.” And he's smiling but his lashes come away wet with his next blink. “Or, loss, now.”

Alastor opens his eyes at that. He seems genuinely surprised by his tears. “Your life is a very long time, mon serpent.”  

Lucifer's laugh catches on a sob. “That’s why this hurts so much,” he says, gasping, drowning, “because I only got you for a moment. A blink of an eye. And now, I've messed everything up, and things will never be the same between us again." 

Alastor sighs, but it's a fond sound. “You'll find another to love, my dear. You have before, and you will again.” 

“But I don't want anybody else," Lucifer confesses. “I want you.”

A gloved hand reaches out to cup his cheek, and Alastor swipes his thumb under his eye to catch stray tears. He smiles at him, small and apologetic. “I know, darling," he whispers in kind. "I know.”

Lucifer stops visiting Eden after that. 

He knows himself well enough to recognize the risk. In his current state, it's far too tempting to sink into oblivion and stay hidden within the reeds of his soul. 

With his relationship with Charlie on the line, it's simply not a luxury he can afford. 

Instead, Lucifer deconstructs his nest. He replaces his sheets with the standard hotel-issued bedding and magics away the shameful accumulation of plucked feathers. He returns his favorite pillows and plushies to the palace as his comfort items no longer seem to bring him much comfort.

Then, at last, he tucks Alastor's bowtie in his drawer for safekeeping.

He doesn't have the emotional bandwidth to make himself a new nest. There's care and love that goes into building them that he's not capable of right now, as detached as he feels from his surroundings.  

Having learned his lesson from his last depressive episode, he sends a missive to Charlie via Razzle to excuse his brief absence and hopes it's enough to circumvent her worry for the time being.

The next few days are spent drifting in and out of awareness, letting the waves carry him away from shore. It's easier like this, half-numb and despondent, to keep himself intact. Here, teasing along the edges of the ether, where space and time blur together, the acute pain of heartbreak isn't so vibrant.

The next time his consciousness stirs, he finds himself staring at the glass doors leading out to the terrace. The view is partially obstructed by the mussed golden strands of his hair, but he can't be bothered to brush them aside. 

He’d spent so many of his recent nights out there, dancing with Alastor. The physical and mental exertion required to ensure proper footwork had taken up so much of his focus — Al had taken up so much of his focus — that it’d been impossible in those moments to pay any mind to the deep hurt within him. It'd been an invaluable reprieve in his otherwise miserable existence. 

He’s not sure if it’s his splintered mind, playing tricks on him, or if it’s his powers, drawing the memory to the surface, but he can see them now— actually see them— out on the terrace, figments made of light and memory, spinning around each other, wisps chasing their heels— 

And Lucifer sees them looking at each other with such tenderness that he wonders how much of this is a dream and how much is a recollection. 

2.

Lucifer turns to hide his face in his pillow. He can’t bear for them to see, for anyone to see, what’s become of him — the mighty king, unable to even summon the strength to get out of bed, reduced to this.

And for what reason? Had Heaven truly ruined him so that even a gentle rejection from a loved one could send him spiraling like this? It was pathetic, it was laughable, he was — 

There’s a touch beneath his chin, and it startles him out of his self-loathing. 

He looks down to find that, for the first time in a week, Eden has joined him.

In his weakened state, her movements are slow and subdued, but she's here. Even though he doesn't deserve it, even though she's furious with him and the invisible chains he'd trapped her in, she's still here beside him, nuzzling his chin, providing what comforts she can. 

He gathers her small body in his hands and holds her close, so so grateful. His throat is dry, and his voice cracks down the middle when he finally whispers to her, "I miss him, too." 

Lucifer has a complex relationship with miracles. 

He’s seen firsthand the very building blocks of life, of humanity, willed into existence, sculpted from the mud of the Earth. He'd watched with wonder as Charlie took her first breath, cradled in his arms.

He knows that they exist. 

But Lucifer has seen twice as many tragedies; he’d witnessed suffering of epic proportions and countless prayers go unanswered. 

Unlike suffering, miracles discriminate, rarely gracing the downtrodden and broken, and Lucifer doesn’t really care for the subjective nature of them. 

Were they miracles at all or just fate, weaving its web— just humanity and its indomitable will to survive, to hope?

Whatever their origin, Lucifer can say with absolute certainty that it is a Goddamned miracle that he is out of bed and cooking breakfast in the kitchen for the hotel crew.

So much of his energy is going into maintaining the structural integrity of his glamour and wards that he feels half-dead as he stirs pancake batter, run ragged with exhaustion. 

The familiar routine is grounding at least, a task that he’s done a million times over, allowing him to work on auto-pilot. It helps him feel like he’s contributing in some way, and making breakfast is worth the effort at the reactions he garners from the staff as they stagger into the kitchen.

Charlie is by his side immediately, of course, asking after his well-being. He flashes her a tired smile and waves off her concerns.

His daughter is no fool, however, and despite his assurances, her gaze lingers. 

Charlie doesn’t press though, doesn’t force him to admit out loud how utterly heartbroken he is, and Lucifer is a terrible father for being grateful for the fear she harbors that compels her to drop the matter, not wanting to risk pushing him away. 

He feels Alastor arrive in the kitchen before he hears the obligatory greetings to and from the hotelier.

Body coiling with tension, Lucifer doesn’t turn from the stove, diverting his attention instead into whipping up a second batch of pancakes. As Alastor approaches the coffee machine on the adjacent counter, he hears him tell Charlie that he has a few errands to run and will be absent most of the day.

It's a lie, of course. Lucifer knows that Alastor simply means to give him space, and the consideration shouldn't hurt as much as it does.

There’s a respectable distance between them as Alastor sets the coffee to brew, as well as a social buffer afforded by the presence of the other staff, but Lucifer still can't quite get his lungs to expand all the way with Alastor nearby. 

It would stand to reason then that when Alastor withdraws from the space, breathing would come easier. But it doesn't.

It’s made all the worse, in fact, when Lucifer turns to stare at the spot Alastor had just occupied and finds his duck mug on the counter, filled with freshly brewed coffee. A strip of newspaper comics has been left beside it. 

Lucifer looks up and around the kitchen, but Alastor is long gone. 

It’d be easier, he muses, if Alastor was being more of an asshole about this. If he was stomping on his boundaries or mocking him for being so torn up about something that never was.

But no, he’s being considerate and patient, and it’s horrible because how is Lucifer supposed to convince himself not to love him?

He feels eyes on him then and realizes that Charlie is watching him. 

He turns his attention back to the stove and doesn't acknowledge her stare, because if he meets her eyes, he knows exactly what she’ll see. 

Lucifer spends his day as a shadow, lingering on the edges of groups and in the periphery of the staff in case he's needed. 

He tells himself that if he can spend the entire day helping around the hotel, he can reward himself with another few days of bed rest, away from the prying eyes trying to glean every bit of information from his sullen state.  

By evening, he can feel the fumes of fatigue, can hear the siren call of his room, but not quite, not yet, almost...

For dinner, Charlie orders pizza for the staff and residents, but because it's Hell, each one comes with pineapples as a topping. Still, the ease and appeal of take-out is too hard to ignore, and residents begin to pool into the kitchen once the hotel-wide announcement is made.

Given that sinners are generally more active come evening, it’s a more lively affair than breakfast, the room buzzing with inane chatter and the shuffle of pizza boxes passing overhead. 

The environment isn't conducive to his anxiety-riddled state, and he feels much too exposed amongst so many strangers, trying to fit in while being completely aware of how much he stands out. Not to mention he has to keep his gaze from drifting to the opposite end of the table where Alastor sits sandwiched between Husk and Niffty, having finally returned to the hotel. He had originally planned to eat a slice and then politely excuse himself from the table, but the thought of consuming anything right now is nauseating. 

So, he twists his hands in his lap beneath the tablecloth instead and tries to get a hold of himself. His skin is itchy where he’d stitched himself together, his wings aching where they're tucked away in their pocket dimension. Lucifer has to smother the urge to pluck his feathers one by one until he's as bare and ugly on the outside as he feels on the inside, to grab them by the fistful and — 

A weight settles atop his hands, usurping his attention. His gaze drops to his lap, and he finds a black tendril, cool to the touch, grazing the back of his hand in a deliberately rhythmic movement.

He glances up subtly, thinking he'll maybe catch Alastor’s eyes, but Alastor isn’t even looking his way, visibly engaged in a spot of banter with his thralls. 

It should be disconcerting, but it’s not, this metaphysical awareness that Alastor has of him, of how well they've come to know each other in such a short expanse of time. Lucifer closes his eyes against the heat there, undone by the way Alastor soothes him even as he sits across the room with his fixed grin and indulgent gaze, ever the showman.

His chest aches in a place he can’t reach, and he thinks he may have to portal out of there in front of everyone when he hears Angel’s voice. 

“Luce,” the spider demon calls from across the table. He’s leaning forward, head ducked toward him and his voice low and meant for his ears only.

Lucifer opens his eyes. “Yeah?”

“You good, Short King?”

The question pushes against the sudden wave of melancholy trying to catch him in its current. If he's visibly distressed, it's a matter of time before he draws the attention of everyone here, and he can't think of anything he'd like less right now.

“Yes. Totally,” Lucifer says, clearing his throat. He straightens in his chair, and the weight on his hands fades. He spares only a moment to mourn the loss of connection between him and Alastor. “Just… spaced out is all.”

He does so all the time, so it's an easy enough excuse.

By Angel's expression, though, he's not buying it. He looks contemplative, the seriousness of it at odds with the spider's usual boisterous personality. After a moment, he asks, “Wanna get out of here?”

It's certainly not what he'd expected Angel to say, but his hesitance is soothed by the sincerity of Angel's expression, in the concerned furrow of his brow. 

The question doesn’t carry the same flirtatious insinuation it usually would coming from Angel, and Lucifer comes to the abrupt realization that he really, really doesn’t want to be alone right now. 

He nods subtly as to not draw any attention to them, and when Angel stands to bring his plate to the sink, Lucifer wordlessly follows.

With the constant ebb and flow of guests and the accompanying chatter, their departure raises no flags.  

It’s much quieter once they step out into the hall, the raucous chatter subdued. Away from the crowds, away from Alastor and his kindness, Lucifer can finally breathe again. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles. 

“Course,” Angel says. He turns to walk down the hall and tips his head in a silent gesture for Lucifer to follow.

Lucifer has to hurry after him to catch up with his longer strides.

“I know what it’s like,” Angel continues once Lucifer falls into step beside him. “To want to be anywhere else.”

It's another reminder of how perceptive Angel is, and Lucifer feels a bit too seen. 

He remains silent as they come to Angel's door, giving Angel a moment uninterrupted to fish in his pocket for his key card. Once secured, he places it against the scanner and then pushes the door open with a toothy grin. “Welcome to my humble abode, your Highness.”

The moment Lucifer crosses the threshold, he is promptly assaulted by every variation of pink known to man. The room itself is standard, furnished with a wardrobe, vanity, and twin bed, but the decor screams Angel Dust. Plushies and throw pillows litter the floor and bed, and the walls are covered with polaroids of Angel and his questionable friends and even some of the hotel crew. The space is brimming with color and life and far too much glitter. 

“Make yourself comfortable,” Angel tosses over his shoulder as he approaches his bed. He plops onto his mattress and stretches his long legs with a relieved groan. Beside him, a small mound of blankets shifts to reveal a small pig. Angel immediately picks the creature to nuzzle and coo at it, resulting in a pleased oink. 

Belatedly, Lucifer realizes that he is still standing woodenly by the door.

He feels out of place, his mood at distinct odds with the vibrant landscape of Angel’s room, but even he, in all his obliviousness, realizes he’s being rude. 

He shuffles over to a beanbag on the floor and stiffly lowers himself down onto it. He sinks far deeper than expected.

If Alastor were here, he would’ve absolutely made a quip about how regal looked, swallowed up by this neon pink beanbag.

For his part, Angel simply raises an amused brow in his direction.

“Sorry,” Lucifer blurts out. He squirms in place and the foam cushioning shifts beneath him. “I’m not really… the best company right now.”

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” dismisses Angel. “We don’t need to chat if you’re not feelin’ up to it. We can just hang.”

‘Hanging out’ is not exactly a novel concept to him. Lucifer has spent plenty of time these past months doing just that with Alastor, with and without conversation. But this feels quite different. He supposes he doesn’t have the same rapport with Angel, and so the silence feels like a faux pas on his end. He can’t shake the feeling that he should be more engaging, should prove himself to be pleasant company, or else he won't be extended another invitation in the future. 

With an audible sigh, Lucifer relaxes further into the beanbag, too exhausted to fight with himself any longer. 

Angel quirks a lopsided smile at him. “There ya go,” he says. Then more seriously, he asks, “You hangin’ in there, Luce?”

Lucifer nods minutely. “Yeah,” he exhales. Barely, but he is. 

“This still about Smiles?”

“Yep.”

Angel hums in acknowledgment, but his eyes gleam with consideration. “Hey, can I ask ya somethin’?”

Lucifer waves his hand vaguely around the room in a gesture that reads, ‘Why stop the fun now?’

“Go ahead.”

"Well, it's just— you know, you could have anyone you want. You're — you! The king of this whole shebang. So, like..."  And then Angel, who pulls no punches, asks, “Why him?”

Lucifer closes his eyes with another sigh. He crosses his arms over his stomach, simulating the hug he so desperately needs. 

There’s a lot he can say here. 

Like how Alastor makes his hopeless heart flutter with the belief that maybe dreams are still possible; that Alastor makes him feel something, anything, everything all at once, and it is as heavenly as it is torturous. 

But all he can manage, in a voice so small he can scarcely believe it’s his own, is, “He makes me laugh.”

And he hopes that Angel understands because he'll fall apart if he has to say any more. 

So, the softened curve of Angel’s smile comes as a relief. 

“That’s a pretty special thing to have in Hell,” Angel says. He looks down at his pig, nuzzled up by his side, and scratches the spot behind its ears. “I don’t know what went down between you two, but…" he sighs, "it sucks when you can’t be with the one you want.”

Lucifer senses the opening, and he carefully reaches for it, for the bit of connection and relatability, as an ancient, unknowable creature who just wants to be known.

“You mean Husk…?” 

Angel huffs a laugh and looks over to him with a wry smile. “Yeah, I guess we’re about as subtle as you and Smiles.”

Lucifer certainly hopes that’s not the case. Wincing, he says, “Why haven’t you— I mean, you both clearly like each other so why aren’t you two…?” 

Angel doesn’t drop his smile, but it’s more somber now. “He thinks I deserve better than some ‘drunk on a leash.’ His words, obviously. As if a whore on a chain like me would care.”

Curse Alastor and his propensity to be right, God, the ego on that guy. 

“You’re not— I mean, I don’t think— ” Lucifer starts and stops again. He’s not used to this; he hasn’t involved himself with sinners in a long while, for good reason, so he knows how clumsily he’s stumbling through this. “I mean, you both make each other happy so it shouldn’t matter— “

Angel looks at him like he’s a bit dense, but there’s a fondness in his exasperated stare. It reminds him of how Alastor looks at him. “It matters to Husk. Besides, he knows where I stand. The ball is in his court if he wants to do anythin' with it. And if he doesn’t… well, I’m not gonna force it. It’s not worth losin’ what we have, y'know?”

Lucifer deflates like a balloon. “Yeah… of course. It just...” He drags his hand down his face, groaning, "…really fucking sucks.”

“It does,” Angel agrees. “But then again, this is Hell. Isn't that like the whole point of this place?”

Lucifer huffs, “Fair enough.”

“But hey, at least I’m in good company," Angel says. “And you know if you ever feelin' lonely and in need some stress relief, I’m your guy.”

And Lucifer can’t help it. He laughs. “Are you seriously hitting on me right now?”

“Hey, sue me, alright?" Angel squawks, puffing up in defense. "You’re easy on the eyes. I’m literally amazin' and the most lusted-after sinner in all of Pride.” He lifts a shoulder in a loose shrug. “What’s some fun between friends? I’ll have you know I’m a total professional. Wouldn’t be awkward or anythin'."

Lucifer believes him; he believes that Angel can detach himself from sex to the point where it's no different to him than asking Lucifer to cook a meal with him or go out for a jog. No strings attached, no hard feelings, just some casual fun. 

But Lucifer’s not like that. His desire has always been inexplicably tied to his emotions, and in his entire existence, he’s only ever fallen in love with two people. Even the idea of being intimate with someone he doesn’t love makes him uncomfortable. He’s aware that it’s a more traditional take, sure, but it doesn’t change how it feels. 

He shakes his head. “Thank you, but I’ll have to pass.”

“Your loss,” Angel says, but he’s smiling, and Lucifer smiles back, relaxing further into his seat.  

“So…" Lucifer says, unable to hide his curiosity any longer. "What’s the deal with the pig?”

Angel makes for excellent company when he’s not putting on a show for the masses. He’s funny, vulgar, and manages to pull a few genuine laughs from Lucifer in the hour they spend talking. Given Lucifer’s mental state, keeping him out of his head for that long is a feat in itself. 

When all is said and done, Lucifer leaves his room with a quiet, sincere thanks and a promise to "not be a stranger."

The halls are less crowded now that the dinner rush has died down, but he still opts to portal upstairs and bypass the sinners loitering in the halls. The topmost floor has remained blissfully unoccupied even with the revolving door of sinners checking into the hotel, and Lucifer is ever so thankful for the privacy as he turns down the hall towards his suite. Despite his elevated spirits, he’s past wrung out, his nonexistent social battery in need of a recharge and his tender heart calling out for his bed. 

He inhales a deep breath and holds it for three before exhaling and releasing some lingering tension in his shoulders along with it.

For the first time since this all started, he’s feeling more hopeful about his and Alastor's future as friends. If Husk and Angel can do it despite persisting romantic feelings, there is no reason he and Alastor can’t make it work. 

And Lucifer wants it to work so badly. 

Oh, how he wishes he could take it all back; that moment of weakness where he'd reached for Alastor, and Alastor didn't reach back. He wishes they could return to a time when he could dismiss any affection he held for Alastor as platonic, when he still had the shield of friendship to hide behind. He already envisions himself second-guessing every interaction and walking on eggshells around Alastor to make sure he's not imposing, to ensure he's not crossing the line when really he just wants to set it on fire. 

It's looking, however, like that's a sacrifice he is going to have to make. As it stands, he feels so empty, hollow like a void. He misses the shape of Alastor and his powers, the feel of his subtle vibrations, his filtered voice, and soothing white noise. He misses him so much, he can hardly stand it. 

If Lucifer didn't know any better, he would think that Alastor heard his innermost thoughts, because he appears as if summoned, materializing from the umbra in the otherwise deserted hallway.  

Lucifer’s heart lurches in his chest and leaps into his throat at the sight of him. 

“Your Majesty,” is Alastor’s greeting, his voice thick with static. His expression is dark and unreadable, but his body language is far more telling; he seems to be nearly vibrating out of his skin in barely restrained indignation. 

Lucifer frowns. “Hey, Alastor,” he says. The name is a mouthful, but Al seems so personal, considering the state of things. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, just splendid, your Grace!” Alastor says with a wide smile. “And you?”

Lucifer hesitates. He feels distinctly on the backfoot like he's missing something important. “I’m… alright.”

“Glad to hear it!” Alastor says with false cheer. “Why, you seemed so out of sorts earlier that I genuinely believed you to be in distress. Though, you certainly seem to be in much better spirits now. My replacement seems to be doing a wonderful job already!” 

Lucifer falls quiet as he tries to make sense of Alastor’s words. His instincts seem to respond to Alastor’s palpable vexation before his brain can catch up, causing him to cross his arms defensively. “What are you talking about?”  

“Why, you and Angel Dust, of course!” Alastor says, his grin bordering on manic. “It didn’t take you very long at all to latch onto another sinner, now did it?" he coos. "I suppose it’s to be expected. You have needs, I’m sure, and my company alone was clearly not sufficient. In my humble defense, however, how could one compete with an adult entertainer?”

Lucifer still doesn't fully understand, but his heart is racing in his chest, bracing for a fight. “I’m sorry, I… I don’t get what the problem is here…” Lucifer says, speaking slowly. “Are you… upset that I’m making another friend?”

“Upset? Perish the thought!” Alastor says. “I simply didn’t realize you were so ambitious as to attempt to bed everyone in the hotel! An oversight on my part, clearly." Alastor places a mocking hand to his chest. "And here, I thought we had something… quite special.” 

And Lucifer…

... finally understands.

“What?” he whispers in disbelief, because no, this can’t be right. There is no way Alastor is standing there, casting aspersions based on some incorrect assumptions about how he’d spent his evening.  

There’s simply no way Alastor is standing there, spitting with jealousy after rejecting him. 

The hurt in his chest twists into something ugly until the feeling is unrecognizable. His demonic form simmers beneath his epidermis, and Lucifer's skin prickles.

Alastor’s temper precedes him, but Lucifer isn’t the Sin of Pride for nothing. 

“You… you sadistic asshole,” Lucifer hisses, his forked tongue darting between his lips. “So, let me get this straight: you don’t want to be with me, but you don’t want me to be with anyone else either. Do I have that right?”

Alastor stares him down unflinching, but his silence speaks volumes. 

Lucifer's horns pierce his skin. “Let’s make one thing clear, Alastor. I could fuck the entire city, and it would be none of your goddamn business," he says, and there’s fire now when he speaks. “You didn’t want me.” 

“I don’t know what I want!” Alastor snarls, and his feedback screeches loud enough to burst the overhead bulb. "And you in all your graciousness hardly gave me a moment to think before you fled my rooms. You have barely spoken a word to me since. I have tried to give you what you asked for, but you still… left with him.” Quieter, voice trembling with anger, with resentment Lucifer doesn't deserve, he says, “And I can’t compete with that.” 

Lucifer clenches his fists so hard, his claws puncture his palms. “It was never a competition, you narcissistic prick,” he tells him. “And I didn’t sleep with him! Don’t you fucking get it? I love you.”

Time seizes, spluttering to a stop at the confession. The anger pulsating between them like a heartbeat flatlines. Even Alastor's soundscape falls to a barely audible hum, and the hall is suddenly, horribly silent.

Alastor reels back, his expression shuttering. "What?" is all he says, but Lucifer won't dare repeat himself. 

There's glass in his throat when Lucifer breathes, struck with an agonizing realization. “I can’t do this,” he says to Alastor as much as he says to himself. “I can’t be your friend. I thought I could do this… but I can’t.”

"Lucifer." Alastor takes a step toward him, and Lucifer's penchant for taking flight flares. Alastor clocks it instantly. "Don't — "

But it's too late, Lucifer is already fleeing, disappearing behind the wink of a portal and slamming into his room with such force that he destroys the wards upon entry. 

He whips around, mind racing as he tries to decide what, if anything, he needs to take back with him to the palace while simultaneously considering if he could solve all of this by digging his claws into his chest, opening his ribcage, and ripping his Godforsaken heart from its home. 

Everything is a blur, distorted by unshed tears, and there is a dangerous cocktail of emotion gnawing at the edges of his frayed soul. If he doesn't get out of here, he may very well explode and take everyone with him.

Movement catches his eye, and he turns to find Eden on his bed, vertical pupils wide in concern, and he — 

s    n    a   p   s. 

“This is all your fault!” He bellows, expelling fire and ash from his mouth. His power crackles in the space, angelic energy seeping out of his pores. Papers scatter with the intensity of it, furniture flinging across the space with enough force to splinter on impact. A vortex builds around his person, a tornado born of the anger and the grief he can no longer keep contained. 

"You couldn’t just let it go. You couldn’t just listen.” 

Eden ducks her head, coiling to protect herself against his rage, but he can't stop, can't stop — 

“You ruin everything!” He can hardly see out of his eyes, obstructed with red and tears and blood. “Don’t you get it, no one wants you,” and even when she flinches, he can’t stop, he needs to finish the job and chase away everyone he’s ever loved. “All you do is make everything worse. Just fucking leave already."

"T̡̢̯̰̖͇̥́͑̉̌͌̅͛͊͜͜͟H̸͓̣̪̜̭̀̀̅̅̾͑͌̓͡A̧̢̹͕̠̗͈̩̥̅͋͂̍̾̊̑̂ͅT͎͓̺͍̞͌̋̿́͢͝'Ṡ̸̭̠͇̻̥͉͌̅̄̚ͅ E̵̡̛̝̙̻̮̬͇̙̎̄̒̈́̕͟Ṅ̡̳̥̥̱̦̅͆̏͒͞͠͝ͅŌ̰̞̦̭͋̌̾͢Ȗ̴͍̬̹̹̗̩̋̏͆̍̇͢͢͞Ḡ̺͎̠̜̩̀̔̓̈́͊̈́̅͡ͅH̸͓̣̪̜̭̀̀̅̅̾͑͌̓͡."  

Alastor materializes between them, slipping through the destroyed wards. Bright red radio dials take the place of his pupils, antlers creaking and elongating in a display of power, and Lucifer rounds on him with a hiss. 

Alastor's half-transformed body obstructs his view of Eden, but Lucifer's Eyes are open, and he can see Alastor’s shadow, darting toward the bed to whisk Eden away to safety, and Lucifer panics.

For the first time since he can remember, he recalls Eden entirely back into himself, clicking her into the space in his heart that had been vacant for so long, and her physical form disappears in a glimmer of light. 

Immediately, he feels it — the affection, the agony, the adoration, the yearning, the need to drape himself over Alastor, to hold him and never let him go, to keep him safe and protect him and love him without restraint until he suffocates, until he knows just how fucking much Lucifer adores him, how much he needs him. 

Alastor's gaze flits between him and the now empty bed, his demonic form receding, and he knows...

"Get out," Lucifer commands. 

Alastor doesn't. He stands before him, defiant.

But if he won't leave, then Lucifer will. 

“Mon serpent —"

“Don’t!” Lucifer spins around, hissing, furious with affection for this God-awful man. “You have no right to call me that. I am your king!”

“My king? Is that what you think you are to me?” Alastor's laugh is breathless, voice reedy in disbelief. He shakes his head. "No, that won't do at all. How can you not know, Lucifer? That you are—you are—"

Alastor is beside him then, sharp claws of his hands weaving through the strands of his hair, gripping him with desperation.

He holds his face in his palms and says with worship, “You are my liberator.”

And Lucifer crumbles.

Any fight left in him evaporates into fine mist as he loses a battle already long lost and closes the imperceptible distance between them, meeting Alastor's lips with his own.

And Alastor...

.

.

.

... kisses him back.

3.

Chapter Text

Reunification with Eden does not bring him reprieve or closure. 

If anything, Lucifer feels distinctly out of sorts. 

His innermost longings rush through him now unhindered; relentless waves crashing against his soul’s shores, currents that would’ve surely swept him away had Alastor not held him so tightly. 

To express his gratitude, he kisses Alastor with profound gentleness, angling his head just so to draw Alastor’s bottom lip between both of his own. The action teases a soft gasp from Alastor’s depths, and Lucifer chases the sound with another needy press of his mouth. 

In the back of his mind, Lucifer knows that he’s moving too fast, knows that they need desperately to have a conversation, but he can’t pull away; the restraint Eden’s separation had allowed him is lost to him now, and he needs more — more of Alastor, everything and anything. 

“Sorry, I'm sorry,” he murmurs against Alastor’s lips, but still, he doesn’t stop. He needs to be closer, needs to fuse them into one Eldritch monstrosity so that Alastor can never, ever leave him. “I just — I need to hold you. Please, just let me hold you.”

He’s climbing into Alastor's arms as he speaks, trying to infuse his demon heat into his cold, thawing heart, desperate like a flower searching for sun, and he knows it’s too much, that he’s far, far too much. 

But Alastor… 

He allows it. 

Encourages it even, with the way Alastor drops his hands from his face and adjusts his stance to drag Lucifer onto the tips of his heeled boots and crush him against his chest. 

And this, this is better, because now Lucifer can slide his hands from Alastor’s chest up into his hair. The ruby strands are velvet between his fingers, and Lucifer grips them with care as their kisses begin to blur together. He's tempted to play God with the linear progression of time, to slow it to such a degree that he can simply live out decades here in Alastor's arms. 

But a part of him knows that if he doesn't stop now, he may very well devour Alastor whole. 

Hands still in Alastor’s hair, Lucifer places a parting kiss to his mouth, then maneuvers Alastor's head down at an angle. The gentle press of their foreheads is heartbreakingly intimate.

Lucifer opens his eyes halfway. "I thought..." he starts, breathless and confused. “I thought you didn’t want me.” 

Alastor's expression is one of quiet disbelief. “You make light where you walk, Lucifer,” he whispers. “The only time my mind knows peace is when you’re near. How could I not want you?” 

Lucifer falls silent, and the room around them slips away. His heart flutters pitifully in his chest, slowing until it nearly stops. He wonders if Alastor can still hear its tune, how it sings for him. 

“They speak of temptation as if it’s lustful, but… " Alastor continues with an imperceptible shake of his head. "I’ve found that it’s sweet. Foolish and soft." His eyes drift over the slopes of Lucifer’s face. "You tempt me, Lucifer Morningstar.”

And Lucifer — he understands on a fundamental level.

Because though Alastor has effortless physical appeal, it is not the long, slender lines of his body that call to Lucifer. 

It’s Alastor’s laughter when they dance. It’s the void in Lucifer’s chest that Alastor fills with bickering and jazz. It’s sharp retorts and gentle hands. It’s a blood-red corset. It’s a jar of fireflies. It’s another soul that feels like home. 

“I've always wanted you,” says Alastor. “But I didn't want to risk losing you, fumbling in the dark for something more. So, I had resigned myself to wanting you from the shadows.”

Lucifer swallows around the heat in his throat. “Why now, then…?”

“Because I was losing you, anyway,” he tells him, "and it was intolerable.” 

Alastor is the one to close the distance then. He catches Lucifer's mouth in a kiss that is sweeter than the spun-sugar clouds of Eden. It is a quiet, unassuming thing, and painstakingly fleeting. 

It’s a different sort of ache, Lucifer realizes, to be on the receiving end of such open devotion, to know that his affections are not simply being tolerated but returned. 

When Alastor pulls away, he turns his head ever-so-slightly to speak against the corner of Lucifer’s mouth, “Still, not even you can deny that a romantic relationship between us would be ill-advised.” 

“But I love you.”

They are so close that Lucifer can feel the way Alastor flinches away from his declaration, putting distance where he can. He can't get far, though, not with Lucifer’s hands still tangled in his hair. 

“You mustn’t say such things so easily,” Alastor reprimands. 

It is easy to say, Lucifer realizes distantly. 

After fighting with himself for long, after doing everything in his power to limit Eden’s accessibility to Alastor, entirely unwilling to admit the truth, Lucifer finds that the words now spill from his lips like water. 

“I love you,” he says again. 

And Alastor —  he folds like paper thrown into the flames. “Damn you," he hisses. 

It's a tangible thing, the helpless frustration in Alastor’s voice, in his vice grip that begins to hurt. 

“I have known you to be many things, Lucifer, but cruel has never been one of them. Do you truly care so little for the consequences of what this will do to me?” Alastor's angry now, but it's fractured around the edges, broken into pieces by their closeness. “Or are you simply ignorant of how it will utterly ruin me when this ends?”

“It doesn’t have to,” Lucifer says instantly. “It never — “ 

“This is Hell, you wretched thing. Eternal punishment,” Alastor snaps. He looks like he wants to shake him. “You would really have me believe that you are to be retribution for my sins? That damnation looks like this?” He takes Lucifer’s face into his hands. “Like you?”

Hot tears spring to Lucifer’s eyes, blurring his vision. “Al,” he whispers. 

Alastor’s form begins to expand before his eyes, bones creaking as his body elongates. His antlers sprout, sharp and sinister, to loom over both of them. 

Voice warbled and thick with radio interference, Alastor says, “You don't understand how much I want to tear you A̅͋͂̍PA̅͋͂̍RT͎͌̋̿́͢͝. How much I yearn to break open your skull and figure out WH̀̀̅̅̾͑͡A̅͋͂̍T͎͌̋̿́͢͝ it is about you that haunts me so.”

And for a moment in time, Alastor looks like he's considering it, his eyes wild as he cradles Lucifer’s head in his much larger palms.

Half-hysterically, Lucifer thinks he’d let him. 

But it’s not violence Lucifer is met with, but another kiss ghosting across his mouth. 

“You make me feel… powerless. Weak.” Alastor shrinks slightly at the admittance. “And a part of me loathes you for it.”

Lucifer blinks and, at last, his tears fall.   

Alastor's demonic countenance fades completely at that as he tucks it away beneath his skin. He traces his sharpened claws over the arch of Lucifer’s cheekbones, collecting his tears. “Why are you crying, mon serpent? Aren’t you happy now? To know that I will do anything to keep you? That the universe will burn and us along with it before I let you go?”

And to that, Lucifer cannot do anything but kiss Alastor again. It is his only recourse — the only thing that can soothe the persistent ache in his chest. He has to be sure, after all, completely sure, that he isn’t dreaming; that he’s not a victim of his own shattered mind and broken parts; that Alastor really is here and really does want him. 

“Stay,” Lucifer begs him between shared breaths. “Please.”

This close, Lucifer feels more than hears the sigh that escapes Alastor. He sounds so terribly resigned to his fate. And yet, it's offset by Alastor's arms, embracing him once more until no space exists between them. 

Lips brush against his temple as quiet words spill into his hair, “Far be it from me to deny you anything.” 

Alastor stays. 

Even when the skies darken to crimson and polite society dictates it's time for him to leave. 

He stays, and he allows Lucifer to smother him in his affections. 

Only when the urgency fades, and Lucifer no longer feels like Alastor will dissolve into shadows if he dares to let him go, does he relocate them to the chaise in his sitting area. 

Alastor is truly the epitome of accommodating as he allows Lucifer to sprawl gracelessly across the velvet cushioning and rest his head in his lap. For a long while, it's quiet save the crackling of the fireplace, and the distant hum of Alastor's soundscape. After existing in a state of perma-exhaustion for weeks, a few strokes of Alastor's claws through his hair are all it takes for Lucifer to be lulled into a state of semi-consciousness.

Despite their sharpness, Lucifer knows those hands and their propensity for gentleness. They've tended to his wings on multiple occasions and treated him with more care than Lucifer has ever done himself. 

Lucifer cannot begin to fathom Alastor's displeasure when he sets his sights on the dire state of his wings, but that is for another day.

Presently, Alastor has retreated into a deep state of contemplation. He's staring into the dancing flames, mindlessly carding through his hair, and Lucifer has to wonder if the threat of loss is still clinging to him, too; if he can't quite shake it, either, even as they sit huddled in each other's arms. 

With a deep exhale, Lucifer wraps his arms around Alastor's waist and shuffles closer. He nuzzles the soft red fabric over his stomach. Then, he peeks a single eye up at him. 

“You said romantic entanglements aren't in your repertoire.” 

His words are met with a contemplative hum. “They're not,” Alastor says. 

“And that romance has been problematic for you in the past.”

“It has been.” 

“Will you tell me about it?”

The hand in his hair falters, but Alastor's eyes never leave the hellfire. 

It's too much, Lucifer knows. 

Alastor had already shared so much of himself, had figuratively stripped himself bare for Lucifer’s viewing pleasure. The least Lucifer can do is allow him this reprieve. 

Lucifer buries his face further into Alastor's stomach in a wordless apology — one that is accepted without hesitation when Alastor’s hand resumes its well-worn path through his hair. 

It's not until much later, when Lucifer finds himself once again teetering between the planes of wakefulness and sleep, that Alastor admits, “Vox and I were close, once.”

It takes Lucifer several moments to come back online. After a few bleary blinks, he places a hand on Alastor's thigh and pushes himself up into a sitting position. 

Alastor silently tracks his movements. There are shadows on his face that age him, that speak of another lifetime. His smile is smaller than he's ever seen it. 

But his eyes — those soften incrementally when they come face-to-face. 

“When Vox first arrived in Hell, I felt him in the airwaves,” Alastor tells him. “Our powers complemented each other, and I found myself intrigued. He was different back then. Still terrible, but then again, so was I. Together, we ascended the ranks and made quite the formidable duo. Over time, I suppose I grew… fond of him." Alastor pauses here, mouth twisting in a close approximation of a grimace. "So, when he voiced his desire to pursue a romantic relationship with me, I actually considered it. It was obvious that his feelings were much more amorous in nature than my own, but I thought that maybe, in time, I could return the sentiment. He told me he'd wait.” 

Alastor's gaze grows distant. He's still looking at Lucifer, but Lucifer can tell that he's not really seeing him. 

“But patience has never been one of Vox’s strong points,” Alastor continues, “and the more aggressively he pursued me, the more I recoiled from the idea of… being intimate with him. Once I informed him that I wished to remain platonic, our relationship quickly deteriorated. Not long after, he got into bed with the likes of Valentino. Both figuratively and literally.” 

Though Alastor's tone is devoid of emotion, the careful manner in which he speaks, as if he's single-handedly plucking each word out of the ether, is incredibly telling. 

“Angel said you outright rejected Vox and laughed in his face,” mentions Lucifer. 

Alastor's focus audibly snaps back into place. His pupils shift into dials. “Angel Dust needs to keep my business out of his fucking mouth.”

There still exist some thorns of jealousy, some wounded pride, that Lucifer needs to tend to — and he will. But the last thing he wants is for them to get sidetracked. 

"Hey, it's alright,” Lucifer says, fitting a palm to Alastor's jaw. He brushes the pad of his thumb over his smile. “Stay with me, Bambi.” 

Lucifer has found that nothing soothes Alastor's prickly exterior faster than sweetness. By the annoyed furrow of his brow, it's clear that Alastor knows it, too.

Tension receding from his frame, Alastor mutters, “Our public fallout occurred only after many private discussions. I was feeling bitter, I suppose, that Vox would throw away our friendship in his relentless pursuit to bed me.” 

Alastor doesn't have to point out the similarities, how he must've seen history repeating itself before him. 

The anger and grief associated with finding a kindred spirit in Hell only to lose them. The panic when he'd realized their friendship was taking a similar trajectory. The reluctance to go any further, despite his own feelings. Then, watching it slowly fall apart, as Lucifer, in Alastor's eyes, ran to another. 

Oh, sweetheart, no, never that —

A knuckle finds a home beneath his chin, and Alastor tilts Lucifer’s head back to better meet his gaze.  

“You must understand,” he says. “Romance and physical intimacy are foreign concepts for me. I have been very content without either until… recently." He lowers his hand back down to his lap. "I don't know how to do any of this.”

“I don’t need you to do anything different than what you've been doing," says Lucifer. "I don't want you to change, or try to be someone you’re not.”

“You say that now,” Alastor says. “But in a few months or years or decades, you’ll — “

“What do you take me for, Al?” Lucifer interrupts, but there's no real heat behind his words, no place for it here. “I was married to the same person for ten thousand years. You think I don’t know what I want when I see it?”

A long pause, seemingly out of place, follows.

Then, “Do you still love her?”

Lucifer doesn't catch on, not right away, not until Alastor covers his hand with his own and pulls it away from his jaw to hold it up between them. In the low light, his golden wedding band gleams. 

Something not unlike grief laces through him.  

His eyes quickly find Alastor's again.

“I will always love her, but not like that. Not anymore.” He pauses. “Me wearing this... does it bother you?”

“Yes,” Alastor says with remarkable ease. “But you had said at one point that it is a comfort item, and I do not wish to take that from you.”

“You… you were listening to me?” 

Alastor tilts his head, and his ears sway sideways with the movement. The sight is so endearing that Lucifer’s chest aches.

"I always listen when you speak," admits Alastor. 

Oh. 

Okay, so that's how Alastor is going to play it. Got it. 

Closing his eyes, Lucifer takes a deep, steadying breath. “I'm going to kiss you," he says to him. "A lot. And I need you to tell me when you want me to stop." 

A fetching blush dusts over Alastor's cheeks. “Contrary to popular belief, I don't have a problem with touch itself. It's the expectation that comes with it.” Alastor's nonchalant shrug is a stark contrast to the deepening hue of his skin. “But I enjoy it... kissing you.” 

Alastor had voiced similar sentiments not too long ago, back when they were still getting to know each other. But Lucifer can't, in good faith, tell Alastor that he doesn't desire him. 

Despite his separation from the Sins, Lucifer can still be terribly greedy and gluttonous at times, and there's simply no part of Alastor that he doesn't want. 

So, instead, he says, “I will never take anything more than what you're willing to give. If this is as far as you ever want to go, this is enough.” Lucifer leans forward to press a kiss to the corner of Alastor's eye. Lashes flutter softly against his skin. “You will always be enough for me.” 

Alastor exhales softly, shakily, “Lucifer — “  

Lucifer interrupts him with a kiss, unable to wait another moment to indulge in Alastor's softness, reserved solely for him. 

By early morning, they find themselves curled up on the chaise as Lucifer does his best impression of a weighted blanket. If Alastor's muttered, sassy comment is anything to go by, he likes it, too. 

Despite Alastor being technically dead, Lucifer can still hear his heart beating beneath his ribcage, can feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest. It's all so utterly unnecessary, relics of Alastor's life spent on Earth, but Lucifer covets it all the same. 

In the end, it shouldn't surprise him that he'd fall for another human. 

He'd always been in love with them, after all.