Alastor looks at the clock on his wall. It's a quarter after two in the morning, and Lucifer is still out cold.
He wrings out the towel in the basin; water stained the palest gold, and takes another gentle swipe across Lucifer's cold skin. His shadow has already emptied out and replaced three basins, and Lucifer is still smeared with blood from hip to knee. Any mortal would have bled out and died, but the subtlest rising of Lucifer's chest serves as the only indication that he's still alive. He hasn't stirred, not even once in the past two hours. Alastor shudders, still nude from Lucifer having disintegrated his clothing, and contemplates taking a shower once he's done cleaning Lucifer up.
After picking himself up off the floor and killing the radio a while ago, he'd intended to purge himself of the blood clinging to him like a sticky second skin, but the second his gaze fell on Lucifer – just lying on his bed, helpless and near-dead – wrenched something inside him. He remembered how carefully Lucifer had cleaned his wounds, and how gently his maman would soothe him when Alastor had a fever, and felt a stirring of something that might have been guilt, or maybe even pity.
Lucifer was so drenched in blood that it looked like a golden curtain, draped over him – like a statue with a carved veil over all its contours. His wings lay limp, as if broken, and bent at an odd angle that Alastor presumed would be painful were he awake. Lucifer's face was slack but not restful, the smallest of frowns etched onto his brow, his golden hair fanned out around his head like an extinguished halo.
The smell of vomit reached his nostrils and made Alastor's guts churn all over again. He threw his most powerful magic at the massive, ugly golden-green stain and it only succeeded in removing about ten percent of the mess. At least the stench was gone, for the most part. Perhaps his powers couldn't purge angelic essence. A problem for a later time.
He turned back towards Lucifer and couldn't bear the sight any longer. On shaky legs, Alastor staggered to his bathroom and let the water run in the sink, plunging his hands under the scalding, sulfurous spray (most water in hell smelled of sulfur, he'd stopped noticing after the first few months down here). He scrubbed and scrubbed, trying to wash his forearms clean, when he caught his own reflection in the mirror.
He looked like Hell – swollen eyes, salted tear tracks down his cheeks, and a smile that was unambiguously a grimace. His shadow lashed out and smashed the mirror, leaving it fractured like a kaleidoscopic spider web. Thousands of his red eyes observed him with reproach.
"It wasn't on purpose." Alastor addressed his warped reflection. "He just made me so livid."
The smile was mocking, reflected a thousand-fold back at him.
What you lookin' at me like that for, boy?
"He provoked me!"
You're weak, boy. You gotta show 'em what's what. Every bitch needs a cane.
"Shut up!!" Alastor screams, his shadow ripping the damned mirror off the wall and smashing it into the opposite corner of the bathroom where it crash-lands on the floor in a crooked, vaguely rectangular heap.
Alastor splashes hot water into his face repeatedly, drenching his hair in the process. He leans against the sink with both hands and attempts to calm his breathing. The water runs pale gold in a swirl around the drain, and a full-body shudder wracks his frame.
Be kind, cheri. Most people are kind.
"No, they're not, maman." Alastor mutters to himself, staring at the clear water running endlessly down the drain.
People were not terribly kind. Especially not in Hell. Back in New Orleans, there were plenty of good folks. Plenty of funny, endearing and deeply broken ones too, Mimzy being one of them. That girl was a trouble magnet, always chasing rich dandies, but somehow always ones who were up to no good – gangsters and smugglers and bookies. They would all inevitably turn violent, or ugly, and Alastor had somehow managed to become her refuge when the fellows would come-a-knockin'.
When he killed one of the pests in her defense, he'd expected her to scream and run to the police, but she'd just looked up at him with her wide doe eyes and asked what they were going to do. Alastor suggested they feed the guy to the gators, and she put on her coat without a word and handed him his.
Good ol' Mimzy. Heart of gold, permanent hole in her purse, and an iron stomach. She could drink men thrice her size under the table, bless her.
And Lucifer?
First among the angels. The first devil.
The liberator of mankind.
Suicidal and sweet as apple pie.
And laid out on his bed like a murder victim.
Like his maman, staring unseeing at the wall as the bed creaks and creaks and creaks, his father's disgusting grunts filling the corridor, with Alastor huddled outside, fingers itching to grasp a broken bottle and lodge it into his father's hairy neck.
He dry heaved, spitting up a glob of bile that landed in the sink like the embodiment of sin.
His father's or his – it mattered little.
Lucifer wasn't a monster to be slain. He wasn't an illiterate drunkard beating on his wife and children. He wasn't a local loan shark extorting widows for sexual favors. He was not the priest touching young boys and leaving them with bloodied breeches.
He didn't deserve death. At least not the kind Alastor provided.
To be perfectly fair, Lucifer didn't deserve to be in Hell at all. His crime was rebellion against authority, not some depraved horror that one would associate as deserving of eternal torment.
To not truly be a sinner and be stuck in Hell…
Alastor washed his face a final time and rinsed out his mouth thoroughly; gurgling and spitting out water about a dozen times until his throat and mouth were marginally less on fire.
He grabbed a washbasin from under his sink and filled it with warm water. Then he plunged his bar of hard soap into it and worked up a very mild lather, then removed the bar, letting it slide wetly back into the glass soap dish, and had one of his shadows grab a clean hand towel.
Thus armed, he headed back to his room and sat down on the bed next to Lucifer's unresponsive body. He bade shadows to pick up a chair and leave it next to the bed, where he used it as a makeshift table to place the washbasin on.
Would Lucifer mind being touched like this, Alastor wondered. He was always so concerned with the most nonsensical things. Perhaps it was selfish of him to do it anyways, since he couldn't bear to look at all that blood any longer. (Alastor couldn't even bear to look at his own body, which was drenched only marginally less than Lucifer's.)
Alastor soaked one corner into the soapy water and with a deep inhale, brought the warm, wet cloth to Lucifer's neck. At first he attempted a few dabs, but they weren't very effective. It took him over ten minutes to find a technique that worked, the blood having congealed somewhat. Angelic blood was less prone to drying out in gross clumps, unlike the human kind. (For all that, there was still gold under Alastor's fingernails.)
So this is where he finds himself at 2:20 in the morning, dragging the fourth towel (and fourth basin of clear water) across Lucifer's pale hip. It feels worse than cleaning after his crime scenes did.
Mortal blood felt cleansing. They had deserved to die. After each kill, Alastor felt vindicated. He knew he wasn't doing good, but he was doing a fair deal better by humanity than any deity he'd come across –the lying entity he was enslaved to included. Lucifer, by consequence, has never been allowed to do…whatever it was that good and proper angels were supposed to. His rebellion cost him significantly more than Alastor's plunging into Hell ever did.
Alastor knows he has escaped punishment. It felt good to unintentionally cheat the system, but as he looks at Lucifer's pale and lifeless body, he feels…
His hand halts midway down Lucifer's thigh and he becomes acutely aware of his pruned fingertips and the suffocating humidity in his rooms. The emotion he's feeling eludes him. He gazes at Lucifer's unchanged expression, and his fingers twitch with the urge to brush the golden hair away from his face.
To tidy his sprawled, skewed wings and put them to rights.
To cover his body with something warm so he can…
Alastor blinks, frowning.
His rooms are so cold.
Unable to put his finger on it, Alastor resumes his efforts to clean Lucifer up. A long swipe of towel – rinse in the water – wring the towel – repeat. It's almost meditative, provided he doesn't think about the implications too much.
What's going to happen when Lucifer comes to? And when can he expect that to happen? Should he take Lucifer to his rooms in the dead of night, to allow him to rest (and prevent anyone discovering Lucifer in his rooms, naked and unconscious). Alastor knows he can be persuasive, but this would be a hard sell, even for him.
'Charlie, dear girl! I only ravished your father into unconsciousness, ha ha! He's sleeping it off; you can come pick him up in a few hours – ta ta, now!' That would go down well, he bets.
So he focuses on wiping Lucifer's left knee clean. The less blood there's left on his pale skin, the less Alastor feels like a murderer.
His hand halts mid-motion and his eyes go wide. He brings his left hand to his face and the touch of his own fingers is surprising, almost as if he has never connected with the sensation before. He covers his mouth and smothers a noise that attempts to rise unbidden from his throat.
Is this… regret?
Alastor swallows, panic rising in his limbs like tiny pinpricks, millions of them stabbing into his every nerve.
He's not felt regret–
–or anything even remotely similar to regret, in–
Possibly ever?
Alastor forces himself to breathe. He must breathe. He is safe here. He had found his father in Hell, a decade after he arrived, and he painted the walls of an alley in Wrath with his guts. Patricide felt even more satisfying the second time around.
Alastor realizes that he has felt regret before.
Regret that he wasn't strong enough to murder his father earlier; that he had to wait to grow as tall as him, and ambush him from behind.
He still remembers that first, unintended taste of blood as it sprayed across his face.
The memory is overwritten with the image of Lucifer choking on his own blood, his throat half-ripped out, and Alastor wants to hurl again. The warring sensations of delicious power and all-encompassing disgust engage in battle in his mind, unable to be reconciled. As he looks down into his lap, he finds himself mercifully unresponsive, as is his custom. Still, the sight of blood splatter across his flaccid length makes him feel sick. Disgust wins, vanquishing – at least temporarily – the part of his brain that would ordinarily want to lap up all of the blood still remaining like a starved animal, licking at his bicep, his elbow, anywhere he could reach.
Right now, he'd rather peel his own skin off than touch any of it.
He rinses the sodden towel once more, water sloshing in the basin as the wet fabric smacks against the rim. He pulls it up, watches as water drains out in rivulets, and squeezes both ends together, ignoring the gradual yellowing of the water below as the trick-trick-trickle of it cascades into the basin.
He brings the wet towel to Lucifer's other thigh, and begins to wipe the last of the glistening blood off. He ignores, assiduously, the area in between. In his periphery, he can tell it's shining with golden blood, but he avoids a direct confrontation with it. It makes him uncomfortable, and he cannot quite puzzle out why.
Was he any better than his father?
Of course he was, Alastor comforts himself. He wasn't married to Lucifer, hadn't made a commitment before God and the civil authorities to protect him, was under no obligation to provide him with anything – neither shelter, nor sustenance.
He didn't owe Lucifer anything.
Except your free will, his mind whispers insidiously.
Alastor fights another wave of nausea as he swipes the towel down Lucifer's pale thigh, hands shaking uncontrollably.
He doesn't owe the King of Hell anything.
Except the deal you made and failed to uphold?
Deals were made to be exploited, broken, or leveraged. None of it was ever supposed to be fair. Fairness didn't exist, not on Earth and not in Hell either. Alastor heavily suspects Heaven to be equally corrupt, albeit more complacent and full of self-righteous imbeciles such as Adam.
And before him, like an exquisite broken puppet, lies Lucifer Morningstar.
The dawn of human consciousness itself.
Alastor's breath hitches, stitches in his face cutting viciously into his flesh that rejects the smile for the first time in well over a century. The smile is irrepressible, however, and it stays on despite the sensation that his cheeks are being ripped apart.
Did Lucifer plan this? Did he actually want to die in Alastor's arms?
The image of Lucifer going slack in his grasp rises like a phantasm out of a grave and grips Alastor around the throat.
He abandons the wet towel across Lucifer's thigh and folds in on himself, face buried in the messy, damp covers of his bed. He grips the fabric, crumpling it in his trembling fists, and shivers freely, unable to stop. "I'm sorry…" He murmurs into the fabric, infinitely relieved that Lucifer is out for the count and cannot see any of this. "I didn't mean it."
Lucifer's shallow breathing remains the same, as steady as a gentle tide.
He doesn't want Lucifer dead.
If Lucifer died…
Alastor looks up through his messy, damp fringe and stares at Lucifer's pale visage. He would be damned if he let Lucifer squander his power this way. He promised to keep Lucifer accountable and that's precisely what he intends to do.
But before he can do that, he will take responsibility for his own crime.
Alastor takes hold of the towel and rinses it once more – twice – thrice. He then turns and stares at the crux of Lucifer's thighs, and at his bloodied genitalia. It looks more gruesome than anything Alastor has ever seen in his life, and he's seen plenty. It looks somehow worse than disembowelment.
Probably because Lucifer is actually pure, or as pure as a sinless fallen angel stuck in Hell can be.
So, Alastor takes the accursed responsibility he feels and proceeds to wipe the blood off in gentle swipes. He hopes Lucifer won't wake, as the sight would probably disturb him and Alastor would rather he get some rest.
Sprawled out like this, wings akimbo, Lucifer looks so vulnerable, like one of the many crying women Alastor has had to comfort. Would his visceral dislike for the man at first sight have been quite as acute had Lucifer been female? Alastor doesn't know.
He doesn't know, and that worries him.
Sure, he could freely admit that he was territorial. The Hotel was his base of operations, albeit a temporary one. Having the strongest being in Hell drop by and mess up his carefully laid out plans for swindling Charlotte Morningstar put him on high alert. The rest had been pure antipathy, plain and simple. The Ruler of Hell who was incapable of actually ruling.
Except, Alastor now knew it to be untrue – Lucifer wasn't incapable, merely unwilling.
What could Alastor accomplish if he installed Lucifer on the throne proper? If he feigned support to uplift him, and then used Lucifer to purge Hell of its undesirable elements? They could cut across Hell like the ten plagues of Egypt, smiting every one of those disgusting Overlords who keep thousands or millions enslaved only to have them degrade themselves for eternity. Alastor uses his thralls strategically, employing them where they are best suited, and keeping them on a long and loose leash when not needed. That way, they are less likely to foster deadly resentment against him.
He liked the idea of unspecified favors to be cashed in at a later date. They tormented the one with the obligation with nasty possibilities considerably more than explicitly specific deals ever could.
Alastor refocuses on the task at hand. Lucifer's genitals remain entirely unresponsive under his careful ministrations, which is a relief. He would hate to have to explain himself to Lucifer should he wake up – what could Alastor even say? 'Good morning, your Majesty, oh I am just engaging in some palliative care, nothing to be bothered about, now could you kindly go back to your nap?'
Alastor rinses this towel for the last time and has his shadow fetch a fresh one, along with a basin of clear, tepid water. He will do one last careful pass over Lucifer's skin and bathe him until there's no trace of what had transpired between them at midnight. He's not a man given to prayer, but he prays now that Lucifer remains blissfully unaware of what's transpiring, as Alastor has no wish to be seen in flagrante delicto, bloodied from chest to groin, like a crazed murderer taking a bath in their victim's blood. Alastor may be as un-saintly as possible, but he was no Elizabeth Bathory.
His blood still sings on your tongue…
Curse his tongue, Alastor thinks. It always got him in trouble. Just like Mimzy couldn't help being drawn to the worst kind of men, Alastor couldn't help but exercise his wit, even when it would be to his own detriment. (With his father, it always was – the brute was incapable of higher brain functions.)
The basin of fresh water gets deposited onto the chair and he accepts the clean towel out of his shadow's hand.
One last time, he drenches the towel in the water and squeezes out the excess. The water runs clear, soothing his mind. Alastor scoots closer to wipe Lucifer's face, keeping his touch especially gentle as he runs the towel over Lucifer's closed eyelids. He brushes the errant strands of silken hair off of Lucifer's forehead and swipes it back.
The rest of the Hotel slumbers, peaceful and undisturbed, as Alastor performs his penance in the dark.
His red-tipped fingers drag the towel down Lucifer's shoulders and arms. Alastor washes his chest, his legs – his feet.
He has the macabre urge to spill his own blood and anoint Lucifer's forehead with it – leaving a smear, an imprint of his thumb there.
Before him lies the only piece of divinity that Alastor has ever recognized as legitimate.
"We have work to do, my King." Alastor murmurs, inspecting his pious endeavor.
He bids his shadow to remove the soiled towels and toss the water down the drain.
Lucifer's holy blood will be coursing down the rivers of Hell tonight, trickling from Pride on top, all the way down to Sloth, like a benediction none of the sinners or hell-born are worthy of.
Alastor reaches for the crimson feathers with reverence and attempts, to the best of his abilities, to fold them into a more natural configuration. He smoothes the ruffled feathers as he goes and they turn to glossy silk between his fingers in a caress he can feel all the way down to his hooves.
Lucifer wasn't simply beautiful, he was arresting. He was as fair as the Hell that surrounded him was foul; like an untainted well-spring protected by a wall of briars trying to fend off a horde of monsters trying to sully its pristine waters with their muddied, clawed feet.
And Alastor had come and bathed in the spring; shedding the blood of every sinner he has ever torn apart with his own hands to pollute it. Rather than a mindless beast, Alastor would much rather be the impenetrable briar wall.
His shadow hands him a clean blanket from his dresser, and he covers Lucifer's immaculate form in dark crimson fabric. It looks uncomfortably like a burial shroud, save for Lucifer's uncovered face.
Alastor rises and turns out his bedside lamp.
It's finally time to get himself clean.
chapter nineteen
After having taken a thorough shower that lasted for over an hour (and dry-heaving twice more), Alastor steps out of his steamed-up bathroom. He's greeted with the sound of acid rain pouring outside his windows, with the occasional crash of thunder. It's been awhile since they've had a proper storm.
He morphs into shadow to dry his hair and skin (and the wretched appendage he tries hard not to think about on a daily basis) – the damned furry tuft atop his ass that he wishes he could just cut off and be done with it. Sadly, it seems to be intrinsic to his form and no amount of violence or transformative powers can make it go away, just like his horns and ears. At least his horns can turn properly menacing and thus serve some kind of purpose.
When he looks towards the bed, he notes that Lucifer is still in the exact same position Alastor left him in over an hour ago. A glance at the clock reveals it's 4:02 in the morning. Rain continues to drum against the window-panes as his King slumbers, undisturbed.
Now cleansed – at least in form if not in substance – Alastor heads for the bed with quiet steps. Should he get in or not? He could always spend the night in the armchair, or even in the swing he keeps in the swamp, but then he would be unable to properly monitor Lucifer's condition, which seems imprudent at this juncture.
Unbidden, he remembers Lucifer getting so flustered that he all but shouted at Alastor that the thought of cuddling him seemed appealing. Would Lucifer still want that? Alastor couldn't tell, especially not after Lucifer's little stunt earlier. Suicide by proxy, that's a new one, even for Alastor. Ordinarily, he wouldn't even mind – but not when it came to Lucifer; he was a special case. And if he wanted to be held accountable, Alastor would relish the opportunity.
Yes, if he crawls under the covers, he will be close enough to Lucifer to monitor his condition. As swiftly and quietly as he's able, Alastor approaches the other side of the bed and carefully raises the covers to slip in. What with Lucifer's wings, the space left over on the bed isn't quite enough for the sprawling way he's used to sleeping (on his belly), but desperate times call for desperate measures. He lies on his side, looking towards Lucifer, whose face is turned away from him. Is his face still etched with that subtle frown, Alastor wonders? From his vantage point, and with the separation of a thin duvet and two blankets, the only thing he can see is the lifeless sprawl of crimson wings framed in snow white, and the long line of Lucifer's neck, his hair fanned out in disarray. Lucifer remains covered from clavicle to toes, unmoving save for shallow breathing that Alastor has to strain to even hear.
His rooms are deathly silent, save for the subtle ticking of the clock on his wall. Even that damned clock is louder than Lucifer's barely audible (yet mercifully even) breathing. The rain outside is unrelenting, at least, providing respite from the oppressive lack of noise around him. Alastor cannot bear the silence, but also cannot put any music on, as then he would be unable to listen for those faint signs of life that have begun to, inexplicably, matter to him in the past few hours. He burrows deeper under the covers and settles next to Lucifer, entirely separated from his smooth skin by three folded wings and all the bedcovers – and merely observes. Fine golden hairs glisten against Alastor's dark bedding, like an illuminated spider web laden with dew, shimmering in the morning light.
Fiat Lux.
Let there be Light.
In his bed slumbers the dawn – sun timid and afraid to emerge beyond the horizon to bathe the world in its warm rays. Alastor closes his eyes for a moment, and can almost breathe in the smell of apple trees, feel the prickly heat of a balmy summer's day, and hear the discordant twitter of birds. For just a moment, the pervasive smell of brimstone and sulfur abates, leaving him lost in a memory from above-ground. Roasting coffee on the stove, maman bustling in the kitchen, busy with the Sunday roast, and Alastor just setting the table, quiet and content. He swallows past the lump in his throat.
"The punishment didn't fit the crime–" Alastor murmurs, hoping Lucifer cannot hear. "–when you were cast out."
A muted, distant thud of thunder breaks the endless pitter-patter of raindrops beyond his windows.
"You didn't deserve an eternity of this."
Unlike me, Alastor swallows the thought.
He brushes the edge of Lucifer's wing with the tip of his nose, knowing he is undeserving of the comfort.
"You deserve better."
Lucifer's soft breaths remain unchanged, as placid as wisps of clouds trailing lazily across a bright azure sky.
Despite himself, Alastor leans his cheek into the silky softness of Lucifer's wings and lingers there, simply breathing in. It smells like clean ashes – like burnt cedar – a warm, sweet aroma with hints of spice, complex and layered and somehow comforting. Alastor dares not touch any other part of Lucifer, but cannot help the way he sighs against the whisper-soft feathers.
The rain continues to fall against the glass, trickling down in streaks.
Alastor closes his eyes, and wonders whether Lucifer is cold under just one blanket.
Before he can address the issue further, sleep creeps up on him and his breathing evens out to match.
Somewhere far above, a timid yet victorious sun breaches the horizon.
Alastor awakens with a start, ears twitching as he shudders awake – grasping desperately for consciousness. How long was he out? The noise of gentle rain fills his senses, and then his visual inspection of the environment reveals two very important things – firstly, it's around 5:30 in the morning (he fervently hopes it's still morning and not afternoon), and second – Lucifer has moved at some point, as he is now lying on his side, face turned towards Alastor, still asleep. His facial expression reveals some discomfort, likely from having slept for hours on his trapped wings.
Alastor chides himself mentally for not turning Lucifer over sooner. He could have arranged the wings atop Lucifer's back in a way that wouldn't be nearly as uncomfortable.
For a moment he's conflicted. It's early, yet. He should let Lucifer sleep more, as his form clearly needs to recover, but the thought of leaving him in pain for much longer simply doesn't sit well with him.
"Lucifer," Alastor rasps, voice disused and heavy from sleep. "Wake up."
Lucifer doesn't stir, his breathing and expression unchanged. Alastor takes him in, his delicate features, his uncanny, almost unnatural beauty and feels wrong for disturbing Lucifer's hard-won (and criminally-induced) rest.
"Lucifer," Alastor says softly, hoping the tone will be less jarring to wake up to. "Please wake up."
He reaches out to touch Lucifer's cold cheek. The sensation is jarring against the hellish warmth of his own.
Lucifer makes the tiniest grumbling noise in the back of his throat.
"Lucifer," Alastor repeats softly.
Lucifer turns minutely into the touch. Alastor sighs and cradles Lucifer's pale cheek.
"Mnnn," Lucifer murmurs, still half-asleep. "Lily?"
Something in Alastor's gut falls out, like a pilot's seat getting ejected out of a crashing airplane.
"I'm afraid not," Alastor says wryly. "She seems to be indisposed at the moment."
Lucifer's frown deepens and his eyes crack open, the tiniest bit. He makes a confused noise and Alastor barely dares to breathe as he waits for awareness to kick in.
"Nn–" Lucifer mumbles and Alastor can tell the exact moment comprehension kicks in, because Lucifer's mild and hopeful expression drops like a stone down a bottomless well. "You," he says, like a curse uttered by a witch getting burned at the stake. Alastor withdraws his hand immediately, as if burned. With a pained groan, Lucifer flops back onto his back and slowly, in increments, takes in the room around him.
"I'm still alive?" Lucifer states in a groggy tone, staring at the ceiling with a cavernously empty gaze. "That's disappointing."
The words pierce through Alastor like spears tipped in acid. Even after everything that's happened last night, Lucifer still wants to die. It occurs to Alastor that perhaps, Lucifer has wanted to die for a very, very long time, and simply didn't for the love of his wife and then daughter. Was Charlie's conception Lilith's last attempt at getting Lucifer back? And now that she's gone, Lucifer's suicidal thoughts – how much more imminent and pervasive were they?
Alastor feels compelled to do…something.
Anything to get Lucifer's mind off of it.
"Would you like me to put on some music?" Alastor asks, as carefully as he's able.
Lucifer huffs. "What, all out of Scheherazade?"
"You knew what it was?"
"If course I fucking knew what it was," Lucifer narrows his eyes in Alastor's direction. "Tell me, who's the concubine and who the Sultan, in that little power-trip fantasy of yours?"
"You think I'm Shahryar?" Alastor asks in surprise. He had been thinking more along the lines of the golden slave, but…
"Scheherazade is the one that's supposed to be getting killed, just like the other brides he took," Lucifer remarks. "How am I the Sultan here, when I'm not allowed to kill you? How does that even compute?"
"I–" Alastor flounders. "I wasn't thinking of it in those terms."
"You didn't want power over me, to have me at your mercy?" Lucifer asks; eyes now fully focused and alert. "To kill me, if you could?"
"I didn't want to kill you," Alastor reiterates, discomfited with the direction the conversation was heading.
Lucifer laughs, high and hollow. "You think what you wanted actually matters?" His stare is sharper than shrapnel.
Alastor doesn't understand what Lucifer means by this – is he referring to what Alastor means to him in particular (which is clearly almost nothing) or is he talking about nearly having made Alastor into his most recent suicide method?
"For someone who cares so much about consent, you sure didn't ask me whether I wanted to aid in your little suicide attempt."
"It would have been a mercy killing, asshole." Lucifer states flatly. "I guess you aren't capable of mercy either."
"That's…" The words die in Alastor's mouth, since he finds – to his dismay – that he cannot even refute them.
"Wow. Why did I ever expect anything from you?" Lucifer says in a tone that's both resignation and disappointment, wrapped up in a neat little bow. He gets up slightly and throws off his blanket, clearly intending to leave as soon as possible–
– and then stops dead in his tracks as he takes in his completely nude form.
Alastor waits with bated breath. Will Lucifer punish him for taking liberties – for having washed him clean?
"Where did the blood go?" Lucifer murmurs, clearly to himself.
"I washed it away." Alastor says quietly. "You didn't consent, I know."
Lucifer looks at him, something shocked and uncomprehending in his expression.
"I tried to put your wings to rights, but you were lying on your back and I didn't want to touch you any more than I had to–"
"You cleaned me." Lucifer interrupts, superfluously. "How?" Alastor doesn't understand the question at all, and it must give Lucifer pause, because he opts to explain. "Demonic powers don't work on my blood."
"I figured that out when I vomited all over my carpet, thank you." Alastor cannot help but say in aggravation, pointing towards the offending stain.
Lucifer looks alarmed and follows his gaze to the dark, still vaguely glistening pool of sick stewing in the middle of his carpet.
"I tried to magic it away, but it didn't really work."
"How did you remove the blood from me, then?" Lucifer asks, tightly wound and vaguely terrified.
Alastor blinks. "Water. I just used…water."
What, did Lucifer think Alastor spent the entire night lickinghim clean? Nausea re-awakens in his gut.
"You…. Put me in a shower?" Lucifer asks, reaching for his hair and checking for moisture there.
"No… I didn't move you from the bed."
Lucifer's gaze lands on the abandoned basin of water and half-dried towel hung across the back of the chair.
"You… by hand?" Lucifer asks in astonishment, turning towards Alastor fully, sat upright with arms supporting his position, his wings flexing sinuously behind him, so large they are brushing across Alastor's bed covers. The contrast is deeply pleasing to the eye.
Alastor sits upright as well and has his shadow turn on his bedside lamp, which lights up behind Lucifer, illuminating him in a burst of honeyed light.
"It seemed only right." Alastor says quietly.
Lucifer touches his neck – finds the wound healed – and inspects the rest of his skin, even going so far as to peer under the blanket at his legs. And what lies between them, Alastor supposes, though he refuses to dwell on it.
"I don't see any–" Lucifer remarks. "How thorough."
Alastor dares not say a word. He has wronged Lucifer and must await the punishment that is sure to follow.
"Was it delicious?" Lucifer asks; a dangerous edge to his tone. The way he lounges on Alastor's bed is perfectly at odds with the sharp gleam in his eyes.
"Delicious?" Alastor asks, voice strained as nausea rises and spreads all the way to his throat.
"My blood. Did you not feast after I was out?" Lucifer asks in an almost teasing tone.
The mere mention of feasting – the memory of Lucifer's ripped-out throat – and Alastor clamps a hand over his mouth, turning to his left to retch over the side of his bed. Bile burns all the way up, leaving his throat on fire as he attempts to expel something that's no longer there, any blood in his system having been purged several hours ago. He hacks and gags, tears burning in his eyes from the strain. For a few agonizing moments, he cannot stop the reflex, despite nothing coming up.
"You…did partake after I was out, right?" Lucifer asks, a shade more uncertain than before.
Alastor spits out a glob of bile-tinged saliva and banishes the mess with sheer magical power the second it hits the floor. Luckily for him, it stays gone this time around. He turns slowly, breath coming in cramped, painful spurts.
"Not a single drop," Alastor swears.
"I find that hard to believe." Lucifer admits, though his expression loses its razor edge.
Alastor's eyes prickle.
"I almost–" He chokes, trying to will his tears away – banish them – but they burn in his eyes, the traitors. "I nearly killedyou!"
Lucifer's smile wobbles and drops. "You sound almost…remorseful. Hah. As if."
Alastor begins to shake and a tear burns a streak across his cheek.
"I swear on my mother, that I didn't taste any of your accursed blood after my mouth first left your neck."
Why won't Lucifer believe him? It hurts so badly, Alastor's insides screaming and tearing, his flesh convulsing helplessly as he tries to regain some small semblance of control. And fails utterly.
"As soon as you passed out, I put you on the bed and expelled every last bit of it – right –there."
"You look wretched." Lucifer says, no longer quite as angered.
"I never want to see you attempt anything like that, ever again!" Alastor growls.
"What, do I need your permission or something?" Lucifer snorts.
"You told me to hold you accountable, and I fully intend to." Alastor says seriously, leaning towards Lucifer in an attempt to bring the point home.
Lucifer has the good sense to look away, avoiding the confrontation for the moment.
"Oh, fuck. It's almost six." Lucifer takes notice of the time.
"Is there somewhere you have to be?" Alastor asks, more harshly than he intended.
"Breakfast with Charlie at nine." Lucifer states matter of factly.
"And you still asked me to kill you yesterday?"
Lucifer looks at him flatly and shrugs. "The mood struck."
Alastor frowns, something in him aching at the careless delivery.
"And pray tell, how often do these moods strike?" Alastor asks, upset despite himself. "On average?"
Lucifer takes a deep breath and tilts his head backwards, golden hair falling in a cascade.
"Since I moved in here? Hm… twice a day on average?"
"And when in my company?" Alastor asks, afraid of the question in advance.
Lucifer looks at him from this odd angle and smirks playfully. "Do you really want to know?"
"Yes."
"Fine, you asked for it." Lucifer chuckles. "When we're dancing? None. When you fuck me? Maybe once."
"And when we fight?" Alastor asks, knowing he'll likely hate whatever comes next.
"Every time you remind me why I'm a failure."
Alastor tries to tally up the instances and the number he comes up with is… not something he enjoys staring in the face.
"I don't think you're a failure." Alastor says softly.
"Sure you don't." Lucifer laughs, like Alastor's said a particularly absurd joke. "Broken, then."
"Exquisitely broken," Alastor amends.
Lucifer gives him a peculiar look of what Alastor chooses to interpret as wry amusement.
"Do you like broken things, Alastor?"
"They're the only things worth keeping." He answers truthfully. People who are whole, who have no injury, no trauma, the pure ones… they don't move in the same circles as Alastor – never have. Heaven wanted to believe that anyone had the equal opportunity to ascend, but that was absolute bull in Alastor's opinion. He'd like to see hosts of angels get born in poverty, in slavery, to alcoholic and abusive parents, and see how they'd grow up, nurtured on nothing but bitterness and neglect. How pure could one be, when they'd never known a kind word, never received a helping hand?
"Am I something to be kept?" Lucifer asks, deceptively mildly.
"No," Alastor says firmly, despite his desires. "You are to be released."
Lucifer shivers and his wings retreat to the safety of his immaculate back.
"Be as broken as you'd like," Alastor says as he leans in to drop a kiss on the slope of Lucifer's pale shoulder. "As long as you keep fighting."
"Since when do you care?" Lucifer asks quietly, his expression entirely genuine for the first time tonight.
"Since I accepted your dominion."
Lucifer looks at him, expression inscrutable and somehow more genuine for it.
"Let me protect you from yourself." Alastor murmurs, looking up at Lucifer from up close.
"And who will protect me from you?" Lucifer asks.
"Haven't I proven I am incapable of killing you tonight?"
Lucifer sighs. "I can't keep up; I'm too tired for this. Will you let me sleep for another hour before I leave? I'm warm and I don't want to move."
Alastor feels the impulse to close the distance between them, but manages to resist it.
"It's warmer under the covers."
Lucifer looks at him softly, the edges of his smile teasing and soft. "Are you asking me for a cuddle, Alastor?"
"I suppose I am."
Lucifer looks down at his lips and Alastor swallows.
"I'm too tired to keep my form, mind if I make myself smaller?" Lucifer asks, covering his yawn with the back of his right hand.
"If you get any smaller, I'll need a microscope to find you."
"Hah!" Lucifer barks out a laugh and swats Alastor's bare chest. "You're such a catty bitch, I can't!"
"Can't what?" Alastor asks, entirely puzzled by the clearly missing piece of the sentence, but it only makes Lucifer laugh harder as he turns on his side and giggles, clutching his stomach.
"Can't what, Lucifer?" Alastor asks, both bemused and perturbed in equal measure.
"Shut up and let me under the covers," Lucifer says, hard-pressed to breathe through his laughter.
Still bemused, Alastor lets Lucifer get up so he can pull the covers back and get in.
Lucifer crawls in, lithe and naked and beautiful and Alastor tries to remain composed as his personal space is invaded. Lucifer sidles up to him and plasters himself against Alastor's side, his cool skin almost scalding. Lucifer sighs, content. "So warm…" he murmurs against Alastor's shoulder, and he gets the odd impulse to wrap his arm around Lucifer, but is too slow to react.
"Wake me up later," Lucifer reminds him sleepily and no sooner has Alastor nodded his assent, Lucifer melts against him transforming into a small, white snake with a tiny red tail which slithers up Alastor's arm and makes a little nest for itself over his heart, coiling up and stilling there.
With bated breath, Alastor bids his tendrils to set his alarm clock and turn out the light on his bedside table, careful not to jostle the snake already slumbering on his breast.
He places a gentle hand on Lucifer's scaled head and covers them both with the duvet.
"Good night…"
chapter twenty
The alarm clock goes off in the darkness, causing Alastor to groan. He smacks it quiet with his hand, forgetting momentarily that he's not alone in his bed. The snake slumbering on his chest stirs, and Alastor can feel a subtle brush of a forked tongue against his skin from under the covers.
Alastor pulls the duvet up to assess Lucifer's state and no sooner has he caught sight of pearly white scales, does Lucifer reform on top of him, yawning and visibly tired. The added weight is less than Alastor expected, but the sensation of a soft, sinuous body atop his own is almost too much to bear.
"Mnhh–" Lucifer mumbles most incoherently, his eyes not even at half-mast, hair a tousled mess and for all that, more pleasing than his usual sleek style. "Ngh." Lucifer concludes and flops down on Alastor's chest, cheek smooshed against Alastor's sternum.
On impulse, Alastor brushes a few strands of Lucifer's hair out of his face. It nets him a burrowing squirm, Lucifer sighing in contentment.
It's so warm under the covers.
Lucifer's skin is still colder than his own, but nowhere near as chilly as it was a few hours prior. He is surprised that Lucifer seems to find this position comfortable enough to remain where he is, but Alastor sees no good reason to dislodge him just yet. Alastor would like a few more moments of sleep himself after the last night's exhausting ordeal. Half-consciously, he places a hand on Lucifer's bare shoulder and brushes his thumb across his pale skin.
"Mmmnn," Lucifer murmurs and his body almost chases the touch. The skin under Alastor's fingertips is so smooth, so soft, that on a whim, he runs his hand down Lucifer's shoulder blades and down his back. The touch elicits a shiver and an undulating movement that makes Alastor groan softly, the sound unexpectedly jarring in the morning quiet. He closes his mouth to muffle the sound that was coaxed out of him, and runs a lazy hand down Lucifer's side, enjoying the velvety contours of his slender form.
"Nnh–" Lucifer's subdued moan ghosts across Alastor's skin in a humid whisper. Lucifer's left hand is resting against his chest, fingers twitching minutely as Alastor continues to caress him. Alastor closes his eyes and simply enjoys the joint sensation of touch and Lucifer's response to his ministrations.
"Nnn, what are you doing?" Lucifer murmurs sleepily, his face still half-buried against Alastor's chest.
"Shut up and sleep for a few more minutes," Alastor grumbles, unwilling to stop what he's doing.
"You're poking me." Lucifer half-whines, and Alastor's eyes crack open in annoyance. Why couldn't he just shut up and not spoil the moment?
"Poking you? What with? My hipbones?" Alastor mutters in aggravation, knowing full well he hasn't used his claws on Lucifer for a single moment since they woke up.
Lucifer groans on top of him, spine arching slightly. "Hnngh, are you even aware of what you're doing?"
"Touching an ungrateful wretch?" Alastor offers with a frown.
Lucifer un-plasters his cheek from his skin and looks up at Alastor, gaze accusatory. "Can you really not feel it?"
"Feel what?" Alastor hisses in annoyance, hand stilling on Lucifer's shoulder, fingers grasping it in subtle warning.
"Wow, you're really bad at this, aren't you?" Lucifer shakes his head, tousled strands of golden hair falling into his eyes. Lucifer blows upwards to dislodge them and clear his vision.
Alastor's eyes narrow further.
"You've been grinding up into me since you started touching me." Lucifer says bluntly.
Was he? Alastor hasn't noticed. He blinks down at Lucifer in complete bafflement.
Lucifer bites his lip and his hips stutter downwards. The movement is uncoordinated and filthy, sending a rush of scalding warmth down Alastor's skin, like a bad rash.
"I thought you didn't get morning wood, asshat." Lucifer says crossly, his words quite at odds with the eager movement of his body.
"What?"
"You're rutting against my hip – and you're hard – the fuck?" Lucifer explodes and a deep flush suffuses his skin from his cheeks all the way down to his neck.
Alastor blinks and cranes his neck to try and confirm Lucifer's assertions, and sure enough, he seems to be aroused.
"Huh," Alastor says, genuinely surprised. "I don't even notice these when they happen."
"How can you not?"
Alastor shrugs minutely, as much as his current position allows. "It goes away on its own."
"So, you never… deal with it another way?" Lucifer attempts to play at being circumspect.
"If you are referring to self-abuse, no. I do not."
"You don't masturbate?" Lucifer asks, astonished. "Not ever?"
"Why would I?" Alastor points out. "It does nothing for me."
"But…you liked my mouth on you?"
"So?"
"I mean… if it does absolutely nothing for you… my mouth shouldn't really make a difference."
Alastor pauses at that. That is…infuriatingly logical. His hand or Lucifer's mouth, it really shouldn't matter. And yet, the mere memory of Lucifer's tongue twining around his shaft coaxes a groan out of him. Lucifer bites back a moan, hips caught in a halted rocking movement.
"Maybe–" Lucifer ventures, still flushed, and definitively more awake, "–you need someone else's touch?"
"Are you volunteering?" Alastor asks, shocked to hear his voice turning slightly breathless.
"Do you see anyone else here?" Lucifer deadpans, annoyance creasing his brow.
"Not for the moment," Alastor says blithely, sorely tempted to make another joke aimed at Lucifer's size, but refrains. The fallen angel doesn't need size to tear Alastor into shreds whenever the mood strikes him. He shivers. "It's…worth a try?"
Lucifer's breath reveals how affected he is by his terms being accepted. "May I… touch you?"
Alastor savors the taut, desperate line of Lucifer's flexible spine and trails a caress down his arm, touching the facsimile of those pretty opera gloves, fading into his skin.
"You may."
Lucifer shudders on top of him, and all but crawls down Alastor's torso. It shouldn't do anything to Alastor, what with him being nearly immune to carnal matters (unless they pertain to actual meals), but the way Lucifer moves over him, his extended arms maneuvering around him, his smooth thighs flexing and tightening as he comes to kneel over him…
It does something, alright.
It makes him throb.
And Lucifer, sat half-atop his thighs, is equally aroused. Alastor stares at the coiling, writhing tension spelled out so obviously in every line of Lucifer's body, and savors every last bit of it. How much more effective would religion be if they sculpted God like this? Lucifer is like living marble, except so warm, and trebling, and full of need Alastor can't tear his eyes away from him.
Lucifer is staring down at him like he wants to have him for breakfast. Alastor suppresses a groan.
Black fingers ghost against his length, careful and almost hesitant, and Lucifer looks him in the eye, expression fearful, almost as if he's scared that Alastor will tell him to stop and throw him face-first out into the corridor. The image is amusing, but the touch is…
It's…
Lucifer touches his tip and smears the beading fluid he finds there with the pad of his thumb. Alastor swallows; saliva thick and almost coarse as it travels down his throat.
"May I try something?" Lucifer asks, eyes eager and alight.
"Wasn't that the point of this little experiment?" Alastor points out, blunt and to the point.
"Oh, bite me." Lucifer retorts with an eye-roll.
Alastor would really rather not.
Lucifer clearly takes his comment as a sign to proceed (and he is correct to assume that), because the next thing that happens is Lucifer aligning his erection against Alastor's, and the contrast of color between them is deeply fascinating. Lucifer's grasp remains light and tentative.
"Your hand doesn't reach around," Alastor points out, the last dregs of his drowsiness dissipating.
Lucifer gives him an angry, petulant little look and Alastor realizes his error.
"Apologies, it wasn't meant to be a slight."
Lucifer's expression turns feral. "Slight? Really?"
A chuckle explodes out of Alastor, brief and aborted, but genuine.
"Wait," Lucifer's eyes narrow, the movement of his hand halted for the moment. "That wasn't on purpose?"
"It wasn't," Alastor admits, his grin winning out. "Still funny, though."
Lucifer growls and bends forward to playfully bite at his side, near Alastor's exposed waist. It tickles, more than anything. Alastor laughs at Lucifer's frustration and reaches a hand towards Lucifer's, completing the encirclement that Lucifer's slender fingers couldn't.
"Let me help." Alastor offers, the suggestiveness deliberate, and Lucifer shudders with a strangled moan as Alastor's fingers intertwine with his over their combined arousal.
Onyx black over darkest gray, rose over a darkened stem. Lucifer's eyes flutter closed as he moans, strident and almost pained. The touch of his hand still does nothing for Alastor, but the touch of Lucifer's…that's a different matter. Since he has no idea how this is usually supposed to go, Alastor relinquishes the control over the rhythm to Lucifer, and attempts to synchronize as much as he can. Despite his best efforts, Lucifer's hands set a confusing, disjointed pace, making it nearly impossible for him to match up into a seamless experience, but Lucifer seems to be dying in his lap regardless, writhing and lost in sensation.
Alastor focuses, briefly, on the feeling of their fingers so entwined, on the slide of skin against scalding skin, and has to concede that it has an effect – if a thoroughly maddening one. Lucifer's eyelids keep fluttering, but his eyes remain closed. Alastor wonders whether Lucifer is imagining he is somewhere else – with someone else. Can he even imagine this is Lilith's touch, with their fingers clasped together?
"Lucifer," he says in a deep tone, the overlaying crackle of static flaring up temporarily. Look at me, he thinks – he wills. Not at Lilith. Not at the past, glorious and broken; not at something that is over and dust in the wind – swept away into the pit of hellish oblivion.
Reluctantly summoned out of his thoughts, Lucifer's gaze meets his, and the heat of it immolates Alastor from the inside out. He can feel the spasm as it hits, the overbearing clench of disused flesh as it yields to the pressure exerted upon it. With a shuddering groan, he spills all over their entwined fingers and Lucifer – beautiful and ardent like a forest fire – follows him straight over the edge with a full-body shiver. The noise he makes in that beautiful white throat is eerily reminiscent of someone choking at the end of a tightened garrote (Alastor would know).
For the next few seconds, stretched lazily into infinity, there is only the sound of their labored breathing in the dark. Alastor doesn't want to move, the lassitude encroaching upon his limbs once again. He realizes somewhere far off in his brain, that his stomach feels hollow with hunger. He should really go to the kitchens and pilfer a steak or two.
Lucifer's fingers twitch and recognizing the intent, Alastor loosens his grasp, holding his half-drenched fingers aloft so they don't drip all over his rather crumpled bedding. Lucifer pulls his hand back and inspects their intermingled essences with polite interest. Before Alastor can compute the thought, Lucifer splays his fingers and licks a long stripe from his palm to the tips of his fingers.
A debauched smile graces his lips.
"Hmm…earthy."
Alastor cocks his head at the odd comment. "…what?"
Lucifer's smile turns wicked as he licks between his fingers, lapping up their mixed seed. "Tastes like petrichor."
"Isn't petrichor a smell?" Alastor asks.
Lucifer shrugs with his index finger sucked into his mouth, humming around the digit. It comes out with a soft pop, faintly glistening with his saliva. "Close enough."
Alastor reaches out and grabs Lucifer's wrist, pulling his arm closer. He looks at Alastor, more intrigued than alarmed, and Alastor sits up enough to reach Lucifer's stained left hand. He turns it so it's facing palm downwards and licks at the two digits Lucifer has missed. Careful not to nick his skin, Alastor draws the slender black fingers into his mouth and sucks away every stray drop of their mingled emissions, lips and tongue catching around Lucifer's wedding band. If he could, he would slide it off and swallow it, like a great underwater beast, so it would never resurface again. If only Lucifer wouldn't gut him afterwards to retrieve it…
Lucifer sits on top of him, frozen and spellbound.
Good, Alastor thinks. That is how it should be.
Like a delayed chemical reaction, the taste blooms in his mouth, bitter and heady like strong liquor on an empty stomach. He turns Lucifer's palm the other way and licks it clean, slow and thorough as he stares into Lucifer's eyes.
"Mmm, found another fluid of mine to get addicted to?" Lucifer asks lazily, the tone implying the words to be a joke.
"How potent of a drug is this one?" Alastor asks in a drawl, drawing a small circle in the middle of Lucifer's palm with his tongue.
"You tell me," Lucifer purrs, content to watch Alastor at play.
"I will be sure to tell you if I suddenly develop a craving," Alastor says lightly and drops a perfunctory kiss on Lucifer's knuckles before relinquishing his hand.
Lucifer's smile is lazy and satisfied. "Will I get this kind of treatment more often in the future, or only when I almost die the night before?"
Alastor's mood sinks like the Titanic.
"Don't say things like that."
Something in his voice must give Lucifer pause, because his teasing countenance melts away, replaced instead with a kind of resigned softness.
"It…was meant as a joke. Sorry."
Alastor melts his right hand into shadows, successfully banishing the rest of the sticky, rapidly cooling mess off of his skin.
"I didn't find it particularly funny." Alastor states primly, trying to swallow the bile attempting to crawl up his throat.
Lucifer sighs and sits up fully. "I should go."
"You have a bit over an hour left," Alastor points out, propped up on his elbows.
"I need a shower," Lucifer says mournfully.
"Take it here," Alastor suggests. "Unless you want to walk down the corridor naked?"
Lucifer's cheeks color slightly. "Yeah, that would be bad."
"And I suggest you eat something."
Lucifer quirks one of his eyebrows. "I will eat breakfast with Charlie, remember?" With that, he attempts to dismount Alastor but wobbles a bit, his balance suddenly off-kilter. Alastor rushes to steady him, hands grasping Lucifer's shoulders before he can crash onto the floor.
Lucifer looks disoriented for a moment, eyes losing focus. When he looks up at Alastor, all puzzled by his unintended moment of weakness, Alastor says: "What did I tell you?"
"I don't get dizzy. I…that doesn't happen."
"Apparently it does when you lose a few gallons of blood." Alastor states grimly.
Lucifer blinks past the disorientation he's feeling and attempts to deepen his breathing.
"Maybe you should cancel your appointment," Alastor suggests.
Lucifer looks at him in annoyance. "And tell her what? That I got sick overnight? I don't get sick!"
Alastor swallows the thought that Lucifer's sickness is entirely in his mind, as opposed to his body.
"Fine, but you can't see her like this, you'll collapse. What will you tell her when you do?"
Lucifer rolls his eyes and pushes himself off of Alastor, stepping onto the floor one leg at a time, steadier than Alastor would have expected him to be. With a nonchalant hand gesture, Lucifer says: "I'll tell her I got fucked six ways till Sunday and can't walk."
Alastor tilts his head and squints at Lucifer.
"Is that meant to be another joke?"
"Of course it's a joke, you idiot!" Lucifer blows up at him, his weakness temporarily displaced by anger. "Do you think I want to bring attention to whatever the fuck this is?"
"Then take a fucking shower and eat something before you leave!" Alastor growls and jumps to his feet, suddenly towering over Lucifer as is his custom.
"Ugh, fine!" Lucifer says and turns on his heel, stomping away to the bathroom, his pale feet slapping against Alastor's hardwood floors. Even when tense and fuming, Lucifer's movements somehow manage to come across as infuriatingly graceful. Alastor wonders whether that too is a feature of angelic grace – that almost preternatural sense of balance and poise, even when wrecked inside.
How wrecked is Lucifer, really? How thin is the thread holding him together? Is it a sharp wire like Alastor's smile, or is it something more yielding? How close is it to unraveling at any given moment?
Alastor reforms completely in a swirl of shadows and creeps into his dresser to fetch a new outfit, grateful that he has a few alternatives at the ready (prepared for instances when someone actually manages to destroy his clothing). It takes only mental effort to meld with his clothes, his corset posing the greatest challenge. Most days he puts it on the regular way, takes the time to lace himself up properly, but now there's no time for the sartorial ritual he has come to enjoy.
He emerges from his shadow, fully corporeal once more, and as prim and proper as is his custom. With a flick of his wrist, his trusty staff materializes in his hand, and he stands straighter, right hand behind his back. He heads towards the bathroom and doesn't expect to find the doors wide open, Lucifer standing in his bathtub, fiddling with his shower. Alastor observes in silence as Lucifer curses at the sputtering spray of hot water and attempts to regulate the temperature. The water soaks Lucifer's hair, plastering it to his scalp, thin strands of darkened gold contrasting against his skin like slender, tiny snakes.
"Uhhh, where the fuck is your body wash?" Lucifer asks, hand reaching into nothingness, almost as if he's expecting Alastor to materialize it out of thin air.
"The soap is right in front of your face," Alastor points out.
Lucifer turns, squinting dangerously at him. "Soap. You wash your hair with soap too?"
"What's wrong with that?" Alastor asks, genuinely confused.
"No wonder it looks the way it does."
"And what would that be exactly?" Alastor says, supremely irritated by the aspersions cast against his hygiene.
"A stringy, dried out mess." Lucifer says deadpan and turns into the warm spray, lightly scrubbing down his arms.
"You won't die if you use soap once, Your Majesty." Alastor retorts sarcastically.
Lucifer picks it up and sniffs it. His lip curls and he turns to glare at Alastor. "Yeah, no can do. I'm not using this."
"And why not?" Alastor growls.
Lucifer looks at him incredulously; brandishing the dry bar of soap like it's a dirty sock. "Uhh, you wanna explain to everyone at the Hotel why I smell like eau-de-swamp? Or are you ok with everyone knowing where I spent the night?"
Alastor hadn't considered that. Lucifer smelling like Alastor's brand of soap would raise some eyebrows. He shudders at the thought of Husker sniffing that one out.
"Fair point," he concedes reluctantly. "Could I fetch it from your rooms?"
Lucifer sighs in defeat. "No, because my rooms are warded against entry when I'm not there. And I'm too tired right now to lift them."
"What about your clothes?" Alastor asks, an unhelpful part of his brain trying to imagine Lucifer trying to put one of his shirts on. He would be positively swimming in it, sleeves hanging off of his arms like he's pretending to be an old-timey ghost.
"What about them?" Lucifer says lazily, basking in the warmth under the spray.
"Where did you banish them to, yesterday?" Alastor asks, wondering whether Lucifer's little date with his daughter will have to get cancelled anyways.
Lucifer looks over his shoulder and gives him a coy little smile. "What will you give me for the answer?"
Alastor's left eyebrow climbs into his hairline. "I'll get your ungrateful self a snack from the kitchen. And a cup of coffee."
Lucifer's eyes crinkle with mirth. "Sounds good."
"What do you want?" Alastor asks, impatient to get underway.
Lucifer's hands are in his hair, elbows up in the air, and he speaks through the unintended framing his arm provides, his face the epitome of temptation, voice too careless to be anything but affectation. "I want you in the shower in those clothes, soaked to the bone."
Alastor blinks past the unpleasant image (and sensation) this provokes.
"I meant what food you wanted."
Lucifer's bright peal of laughter bounces off his tiles. "Something you don't need to cook. Some fruit or cake or whatever. As long as it's easy to eat."
"Should have known you would go for something overly sweet," Alastor shudders in the doorway.
Lucifer gives him an infuriatingly smug little side-glance. "Go fetch, Alastor."
Alastor feels his blood pressure spiking. How dare he insinuate that Alastor is at his beck and call, like some kind of common… dog!
"Not without you answering my question." He says, unmoving from his spot, the hot steam wafting up into the air, and rolling off the bath like an incoming fog bank, Lucifer just standing there like a lighthouse beckoning far-away ships.
"I banished them to your wardrobe."
"You're lying." Alastor says automatically.
Lucifer sticks out his forked tongue and touches the tip of his upper teeth. "You're welcome to check."
Alastor narrows his eyes at Lucifer and makes his way out of the bathroom with quick strides. He flings the door of his wardrobe open, hinges creaking ominously at his abruptness. His eyes flick through his vestments and there, at the far left end of the rail, on a golden hanger, is Lucifer's outfit, his boots tucked under it on the bottom of the armoire, next to Alastor's dance shoes. On the shelf above the rail, where Alastor keeps a small collection of hats he hasn't worn in ages, in garish contrast, perches Lucifer's ridiculously tacky white top hat.
With a sneer, Alastor slams the door closed and stalks back to the bathroom.
How dare Lucifer try to commit suicide via proxy and just… leave such incriminating evidence in Alastor's closet! Not that Lucifer's CORPSE wouldn't have been incriminating enough, but there was always the option to EAT the fucker, blood, bones and all, to get rid of the evidence. It would have probably killed him, but that outcome was preferable to being caught gold-handed trying to drop Lucifer's carcass down the laundry chute thirteen stories high.
"What kind of sick mind leaves evidence of his suicide behind in someone else's rooms? Unless you were trying to destroy us both in one fell swoop?"
Lucifer – the audacity of it – fucking giggles.
"Honestly–" Lucifer drawls in a superior tone," –it was a toss-up between murder and a damn good fuck, so…"
"Sex and death hold the same weight in your head?" Alastor asks incredulously, more than a little irate. "Who's insane now?"
"We're both insane, Alastor." Lucifer says easily. "What doesn't track?"
Alastor wants to murder him. He really, really fucking does. But the second he recalls how it felt to cradle Lucifer's lifeless body, the murderous rage vanishes like a stick of cotton candy dropped in a puddle.
"I'll be back. You better be done with that shower by the time I do." Alastor warns him.
"Or what?" Lucifer says arrogantly, bent forward and scrubbing at his milky-white thigh with both of his hands, fingers kneading the muscle in a way that makes Alastor look away.
"Or I will make you walk to breakfast naked." Alastor bluffs in the flattest tone imaginable – so flat, in fact, that they could measure rulers by it.
"Ohh," Lucifer turns around, neck extended to the side as he rubs his shoulders. "A spot of blackmail first thing in the morning! You say the sweetest things, my deer."
Alastor can't tell what that little endearment at the end was supposed to convey, but it sounded distinctly like a dig at his expense. He makes a displeased noise in his throat and melts away into his shadow, not dignifying Lucifer's little jibe with a response. Alastor doesn't even know why he's humoring him at this point.
He falls in a cascade of shadows until he materializes in the Hotel kitchen.
Time to brew his morning coffee and raid the fridge for the fussy guest currently occupying his room.
He is going to strangle Lucifer one of these days.