Alastor putters around the kitchen, humming along to a tuneonly in his mind, as he freshly grinds the roasted coffee beans in a manual grinder, cranking the handle vigorously. The water in the pot boils away, steam rising into the air. Alastor tries hard not to think about a different kind of steam he'd been subjected to, not ten minutes prior.
The bowl of strawberries rests upon the counter, covered by a napkin. It wouldn't do to have his dietary choices examined too closely (or at all, actually), since he's last had strawberries back when he was alive. He feels distinctly ridiculous for a moment, upon realization that he's essentially roped himself into bringing breakfast in bed to the ever-reluctant ruler of Hell.
Well, breakfast to bath, actually, but that was another kettle of hell-fish.
He supposes he should be grateful he's not actually cooking for the man. Maman certainly taught him how, and well. He can still taste the kick in her spice blends, even after all this time apart. Alastor's brain supplies, extremely unhelpfully, that his father HATED seeing him in the kitchen. Alastor could never fathom why. The ability to feed oneself was essential to one's survival, and that went from hunting, to butchering, to food preparation. Alastor must admit he's grown quite spoiled in Hell, what with all the excellent butcheries around, but cooking remains a pleasant hobby (when he bothers with it, of course).
Coffee fully ground, he spoons it carefully into boiling water, doubling the dose he usually makes. Once he's stirred it in, he reaches for his personal stash of roasted chicory root powder and adds a healthy amount.
Ah, maman. So frugal. Alastor wonders whether she'd be disappointed that he's turned into a bit of a spendthrift when it comes to food?
He stirs the coffee and turns off the heat.
"Ohhh, something smells nice!" A voice drifts in from the doorway and Alastor freezes momentarily, his hand extended towards one of the non-descript mugs in the kitchen cabinet.
Charlie flounces towards him, immaculately dressed for the day, eyes shining brightly with alertness and unbridled enthusiasm. Alastor pivots and grabs his own mug from the cabinet.
"Good morning, my dear!" Alastor imbues his voice with as much false cheer as he can muster. "Bright and early, are you?"
She giggles happily and comes to a stop nearby, peering curiously at the slowly cooling coffee.
"Yep! Having breakfast with dad later and I couldn't really sleep."
Alastor finds it curious how anyone could be that excited for an early meal with their father, but doesn't dwell on the point. Why couldn't she have barged into the kitchen five minutes later?
"Ah," Alastor murmurs inanely. "How lovely."
I guess we'll both be having breakfast with Lucifer this morning, Alastor's brain supplies, unbidden.
"You made more this morning! You usually only make enough for yourself," Charlie notes, too perceptively for Alastor's comfort.
"Yes, indeedy," Alastor pipes up as he pours the hot coffee into his trusty mug. "This seems to be a two cups kind of morning."
Why the fuck did he say that? Two cups for himself – yes – not for someone else. Definitely not for Lucifer, not even a little bit.
Scrambling for a save, he offers her a most blinding smile. "On second glance, it does seem I've made too much…would you perhaps like some?"
Charlie's eyes turn all starry. "Can I really? Oh, I'd love to try it!"
Mournfully, Alastor takes one of the non-descript hotel mugs and pours the rest of his delicious coffee into it. As the last drops slide down, he knows he's messed up. Now he only has one mug of coffee, and he's promised it to Lucifer. Damn Charlie and her early-bird tendencies.
"There you go, darling!" He hands her the mug, which she accepts as gratefully as if it were the Holy Grail. After a look of pure adoration and almost nauseating gratitude, she cradles the cup to her chin like a kitten. "Thanks, Alastor!"
"Don't mention it," Alastor waves his hand dismissively and stores the chicory powder and the rest of his coffee beans into an old biscuit tin in the cupboard. Everyone knows not to touch it, naturally. (Under penalty of being made into an impromptu snack.)
"So, what are your plans for the morning, Al?"
Going back to my rooms and making sure your father hasn't keeled over, his mind supplies like an overly catty sports commentator.
"Oh, you know, the same old, same old," he says placidly. "A spot of coffee, reading the morning edition, checking with Niffty whether the Hotel needs anything…" That said, he floats the dirty pot into the sink. Someone else will wash it for him.
"You're so hard-working, Alastor." Charlie says dreamily, lost in the smell of coffee vapors. "I'm so glad to have you on my team."
"Anytime!" Alastor smiles and picks up his mug and the bowl of covered strawberries. "Enjoy your coffee, dearie! Now, if you'll excuse me…"
"See you later, Al!" She beams at him. "And thanks again!"
Alastor inclines his head and beats a hasty retreat, making for the elevators. The only trouble with coffee is that transmutating with it in hand tends to ruin the taste upon re-materialization. Which means he's doomed to travel with his spoils on foot, all the way to the top.
He's lucky, at least, that most occupied rooms aren't on the higher floors and as such, fewer denizens need to share the elevators with him as he makes his way up.
When the 13th floor dings, he steps out and hurries down the corridor. By his calculations, he has just over half an hour to hustle Lucifer out of his rooms, and they're cutting it awfully close – too close, especially after Alastor managed to bump into Charlie in the kitchen. They have to be smarter about this in the future. Ideally, there should be no more sleepovers to begin with – Alastor shudders – once was more than enough.
One of his tendrils slithers into the keyhole to unlock the door, and he lets himself in, pushing the door closed with his hip, as silent as a whisper. The noise of the shower is gone, and so is the sound of drizzling rain from beyond his windows. As he steps further into his rooms, he hears a subtle humming noise, Lucifer standing near his fireplace, back turned to Alastor.
Alastor's brain flash-freezes in his skull.
It's Scheherazade. The fucker is humming the melody from the 4th movement, using one of Alastor's towels to dry his hair, and… and…
Alastor stares, rooted to the spot at the sight of Lucifer, barefoot in his rooms, wearing nothing but Alastor's housecoat, which is so large on him that it's hanging off of his left shoulder, sleeve caught on his elbow which prevents its further descent. Lucifer has belted it, but it's so long on him that it almost looks like a dress.
Alastor clears his throat.
Lucifer yelps in fright and turns like a deer caught in the headlights.
"Boo," Alastor says blithely.
Lucifer snarls at him. "You almost gave me a heart attack! When the fuck did you even get back?"
"Just now," Alastor says, frowning deeply at the sight of Lucifer wearing something of his, the left side of his chest entirely exposed to his gaze. It doesn't fit him at all, what with being about seven sizes too big, but Alastor still can't tear his eyes away. The crimson velvet suits Lucifer's pale complexion better than Alastor would have thought.
"If you're angry I found this thing lying around–" Lucifer looks at him, irate, spewing some words of rancor that barely even register in Alastor's mind. The diatribe lasts no longer than ten seconds, but the moment he looks up, his brain is kicked back into gear. "– you know what, fine, I'll just be naked then!" Lucifer says angrily and starts to pull one of his arms out of the sleeves, when he finally notices Alastor's frozen, wide-eyed expression and halts in his tracks. A frown of scrutiny morphs into a broad smirk on his pale face, the towel hanging abandoned around his shoulders and obscuring the bared one from Alastor's view.
"Oh…now that's interesting." Lucifer murmurs slyly, eyes devilish, and hair lying damp in perfectly disheveled golden strands, framing his forehead around his usually less pronounced widow's peak. With a grin, Lucifer pulls at the towel and drapes it carelessly over one of Alastor's armchairs.
"What is?" Alastor tries to play it off like he hasn't just been caught staring in a most appreciative manner. What he doesn't appreciate, however, is a damp towel languishing against his upholstery.
"You're not mad," Lucifer says playfully and brings his bared shoulder forward coquettishly. "You think I look se–xyyyyy…"
Alastor recoils from second-hand embarrassment at having Lucifer sing-song something so ridiculous.
"Do you like the way I look in your clothes?" Lucifer sashays towards him; face alight with mischief and seductive delight. Lucifer stops in front of him and allows the overly loose garment to fall down both his shoulders, revealing the very beginning of the gradient at his upper arms. It has no right to be appealing, yet it is – Alastor doesn't know whether that's just the gleam in Lucifer's eyes, so vibrantly alive, or the vaguely submissive pose he's contorted himself into, but the effect is undeniable.
Alastor wants to deck him.
"Take the fucking coffee and stop playing ingénue." Alastor spits venom and hands Lucifer his mug.
Lucifer's eyes seem to focus on the mug for the first time and he looks puzzled. "Uhh, isn't this your mug?"
"Were you expecting me to bring yours up too?" Alastor asks, deeply unimpressed by Lucifer's reasoning skills this morning. "I was waylaid by your daughter in the kitchen and couldn't risk taking both with me. Not without inviting pointed questions."
Lucifer takes the effort to pull up at least one of the sides of the robe, covering his right shoulder once more, but doesn't bother with the left side before taking the proffered mug.
"Aw, sorry. Did you at least drink some before getting interrupted?" Lucifer asks as he brings the mug closer to his mouth to savor the aroma, mercifully without any outpourings of nauseating gratitude.
"Didn't have the chance." Alastor says with much rancor. "Gave her the rest as a distraction."
Lucifer makes a commiserating noise and takes a careful sip. "Mmm! This is good!" Lucifer says in delight. "What did you put in there?"
Alastor says without missing a beat: "Family secret, I'm afraid."
"Aw you could tell me but then you'd have to kill me?" Lucifer says flirtatiously and hides his smile behind the rim of Alastor's favorite mug. It's so odd to see someone else's lips touching it.
Alastor's stomach plummets, all yearnings for coffee vanishing from his head.
"Are you aware of just how often you say vaguely suicidal things?"
Lucifer merely shrugs and seats himself in Alastor's usual armchair. He should really say something about it, but he's too tired to chastise Lucifer at the moment. It's only then that it hits him that the ugly golden stain that used to be there has been vanished from the upholstery. Then he casts his gaze upon the rug and finds it pristine, almost steamed-looking. Near death, and the man found the power necessary to get rid of evidence.
And NOT had the power to dry himself off without resorting to fucking towels.
Alastor drops into the opposite armchair and places the bowl of strawberries on the coffee table, removing the napkin from it and tossing it into Lucifer's lap (legs crossed, left thigh exposed).
"There. I've performed my duty."
Lucifer grins, still cradling his mug in both hands. "Bringing your lover a post-coital snack is considered duty now? My my…"
The delivery is teasing, but Alastor feels a barb of some kind hidden in the words.
"We're lovers now?" Alastor tilts his head, firing back.
"Ordinarily, I'd say we hate-fuck–" Lucifer says airily, "–either that, or we're enemies with benefits? But I'm pretty sure you'd call that undignified."
Alastor pulls a face of disgust.
"See?" Lucifer laughs. "Told you."
"Eat the damned things before I throw them out into the swamp." Alastor bristles.
Lucifer takes a long, luxurious swallow of Alastor's coffee and he wonders, distantly, what his maman would say to him entertaining a man in his parlor at half past eight in the morning, bedecked in nothing but his house coat. The twenties were a free-spirited time for sure, but that didn't mean you could bring a man over for tea.
Good thing she wasn't here to sully her eyes on Lucifer lounging about as shamelessly as some kind of Jezebel.
"Strawberries?" Lucifer asks, his tone implying nothing at all pure. "Should I be reading into your choice to bring me this?"
"There were tangerines, pomegranates, and these. I chose something easy to eat, as per your instructions." Alastor points out flatly. "And besides, even I'm not stupid enough to bring you a banana."
Lucifer bursts out into laughter; high and tinkling like jingle bells.
"Aww, I almost got my hopes up." Lucifer teases, fingers playing with the rim of Alastor's mug. "I thought you might feed them to me, you know…"
"Why would you assume such a thing?" Alastor asks blandly. Besides, feed them how?
"You're right," Lucifers sighs and melts deeper into his armchair. "I forgot I was dealing with a complete novice."
"Why the sudden disappointment?" Alastor asks, genuinely puzzled. "You are aware I'm not the romantic sort."
Lucifer pouts and reaches for a strawberry, popping it into his mouth and chewing like a child who's been denied a treat. Alastor looks at him and wonders, what would maman tell him for looking at the literal Devil, the original temptation, and finding him beautiful? Alastor always thought he simply never found the right woman to bring home; after all, with his mixed heritage… Naturally, there were women who found him attractive. Even a few men, if truth be told. He simply never felt a stirring of any kind with any of them. While he was still above ground, he'd presumed that was simply because the right person never came along. He didn't think himself especially picky either, as he never considered anything particularly ugly on a person, not the things others disliked anyhow, like crooked teeth, or protruding ears, or a limp. Alastor didn't care about any of it.
Of course, looking at Lucifer, it was exceedingly hard to find any human fault with him – his features were symmetrical, pleasing, and perfectly proportionate despite his small and unassuming stature. Any faults he had lay in his broken approach to life and weak mentality – much bigger faults in a person than any slight physical defect could be.
And yet…
There's strength there too – a twisted sort of resilience, despite Lucifer's flip-flopping on the concept of remaining alive.
How burdensome would it be to live forever and have nothing go your way?
Alastor frowns. Live forever, so powerful, and still do nothing to remedy the problems around you…no, Alastor cannot reconcile that. It's an offense he cannot forgive, or excuse.
"You could pretend," Lucifer says mildly, sucking the juice out of his third strawberry. "It would be more fun that way."
"Fun for whom?" Alastor raises an eyebrow.
Lucifer shrugs, Alastor's robe falling down his shoulders once more. They have maybe fifteen minutes before Lucifer has to be on his way down to the lobby.
"Forget I said anything," Lucifer says dismissively and takes another sip of his coffee, closing his eyes for the moment as he relaxes in the chair.
It takes Alastor some time to parse Lucifer's statement it its entirety. He wishes to be, what… lied to? Pretend-romanced? Seduced?
Why?
What would be the point of such a thing, when they both know it's a lie? Was Lucifer truly driven so mad with loneliness that such games would entertain him? Alastor could maybe understand the cravings of the flesh, a physical sort of hunger that needed satisfying, but romance had never been on offer.
"I should get dressed," Lucifer murmurs, voice suddenly tired and subdued. He leaves the mug on the coffee table and pops another strawberry into his mouth, then attempts to stand up, but Alastor's shadow pops in behind Lucifer and grabs him by the shoulders, dropping his behind back into the chair.
Lucifer gives him a scandalized look.
"That bowl is only half-empty. You're not going anywhere until you finish it."
"I have, what, ten minutes to get dressed and go?" Lucifer points out, annoyed, wiping his fingers with the napkin. "What are you playing at – do you want me to be late?"
"Technically twelve." Alastor points out. "And arguing with me is a waste of time. Now eat the damned things as I dry your hair."
Lucifer flushes, clearly having forgotten that his hair is still damp and looking not at all presentable in his current state. How he thinks he can meet Charlie like this is beyond Alastor. Oddly obedient, Lucifer grabs another strawberry and bites into it. The hands of Alastor's shadow reach into Lucifer's hair and card through it, leeching out the water with each pass and smoothing Lucifer's hair back into the semblance of his usual hairstyle. It feels strange to watch his shadow performing an action as he watches, completely detached from it.
Lucifer swallows; eyes half-lidded. He leans into the touch of his shadow, like he would crave affection from the hands of an executioner. Alastor's stomach overturns.
He gets up from the chair and walks to his wardrobe, opens it swiftly and grabs the hanger with Lucifer's outfit and his boots. He casts a baleful look towards the hat like it's caused him personal offense – which it very much has. He ignores it for now (would burn it if he could) and stalks back to Lucifer, who's sitting in his chair, flushed, face hidden behind black hands as his shadow caresses his nearly fully dried hair. Alastor banishes his shadow and Lucifer makes a whiny sound of protest.
"Get up so you can get dressed." Alastor instructs, placing the boots on the floor. Lucifer looks up at him, skin visibly radiating heat. He looks annoyed and embarrassed, all at once. "Why did you stop?" Lucifer asks petulantly.
"Because we have 9 minutes left and your hair is dry?" Alastor points out, no longer in the mood for Lucifer's nonsense.
"Is it?" Lucifer squeaks and Alastor leans down to push his gloved fingers through the strands, Lucifer sitting so much below him that he's forced to crane his neck up. Alastor regrets wearing gloves for the first time in forever, as that means he cannot properly enjoy the sensation of Lucifer's silky hair against his fingertips. A visual inspection confirms it's dry, so that's something.
"Mhm," Alastor confirms. "Dry as a bone."
Lucifer is looking up at him, throat swallowing around nothing, and Alastor looks down at the beautiful slope of his shoulders and the clear line of his clavicles and has to fight an impulse to reach out and touch.
"Get dressed or I'll do it for you." Alastor reiterates.
Lucifer bites his lip and undoes his sash.
Alastor's sash.
The endless expanse of alabaster skin is revealed, drowned in the sea of Alastor's crimson robe and he knows that Lucifer should never wear any other color for as long as he lives. Only the crimson of mortal blood, enveloping him like a royal mantle.
The King of all sinners – staring up at him like he wants to be delivered.
Like the only thing he craves is worship.
Alastor feels a stirring in his core, molten and languid like magma breaking crust between tectonic plates. Immediately unnerved by the sensation, he steps away, increasing the distance between them once more. His abrupt departure seems to knock some sense into Lucifer, who rises with a shuddering exhale and abandons the robe on the armchair like a shed skin.
For all intents and purposes, Alastor turns into a coat hanger, holding Lucifer's outfit aloft while he stares assiduously down at the floor. He dares not think about Lucifer fully bared to his gaze. It reminds him of last night, of a waterfall of golden blood, and of this morning, in the shower, just standing under the spray and bantering like he hadn't almost been killed by Alastor less than nine hours prior.
Lucifer rummages before him, pulling something out of the white trouser pocket and Alastor realizes with a shock that it's underwear. The heathen stuffed his own underwear in a trouser pocket and left it in Alastor's closet. Mortifyingly, Alastor feels heat suffusing the skin of his face. Lucifer shuffles in front of him and Alastor closes his eyes tightly. He doesn't want to see that pink striped fabric climbing up Lucifer's ankles. He doesn't want to watch any of it.
The hanger gets lighter and lighter in his grasp, and Alastor tries not to listen either, but is cursed by his acute hearing and can distinguish every single rustle of clothing as it caresses Lucifer's skin on its way up. He doesn't know which is worse, to look at it and suffer the sight of it, or to listen and have his mind fill out the gaps instead. He hears the buttons passing through their respective holes, the crisp pull of sleeves, the subtlest clink of the thin chain adorning Lucifer's waistcoat.
It makes him shiver – so illicit, so… untouchable somehow.
The hanger disappears from his grasp, dissolved into nothingness. His fingers clench around nothing and he awkwardly lowers his hand by his side.
"You can look now," Lucifer says with soft amusement.
"I'd rather not." Alastor retorts, voice uncomfortably strained.
"Only three minutes left," Lucifer murmurs. "If you want to say your goodbyes?"
"What for?" Alastor asks, knowing full well Lucifer still has to put his boots on.
The leather creaks, the air before him displaced, intermittently warm and cold as Lucifer shifts in front of him. Alastor waits with bated breath, willing Lucifer to leave his rooms as soon as possible. He feels raw and disjointed, and cannot find the cause beyond the physical discomfort he's currently experiencing.
Lucifer moves two steps to his left and Alastor can hear the last of his coffee being drained away.
Not even a sip left.
What a waste of effort.
He hears a rustle of wings and feels the updraft created by the flurry of movement right in front of him. Unwittingly, his eyes open and he can see Lucifer hovering just slightly above him, in a way that forces Alastor to look up.
Fully dressed, but still without his hat, Lucifer smiles down like a benevolent guardian angel and cups Alastor's cheek. It's impossible to look away from the majestic crimson and white plumage, flexing and moving, holding Lucifer aloft. Alastor feels the touch of Lucifer's thumb brushing his lips and he shivers, the seam of his lips parting as if on some primitive instinct. Wide-eyed and uncomprehending, he stares forward, entirely frozen as Lucifer leans in and seals his mouth in a kiss. He fears an intrusion but it never comes, warm and delicious liquid spilling into his mouth instead – for a terrifying second, he fears it's Lucifer's golden blood, but the moment it hits his tongue, the taste that blooms is bitter and rich.
It's only coffee.
Alastor's eyes flutter closed and he swallows reflexively, so used to welcoming that particular liquid into his body that his instincts override the unorthodox method of delivery. He swallows once, twice – warmth flooding his mouth like a benediction – and feels Lucifer's cool lips pressing against his with a brief burst of sound for another moment before retreating. Alastor swallows the last, insufficient mouthful – mixed faintly with Lucifer's saliva – and a quiet noise dies in his throat.
Lucifer smiles down at him with a complicated look in his eyes.
"I would feel bad if you didn't get to taste the fruits of your labor before I left…" Lucifer says wryly and then has the audacity to wink at him.
In a flurry of red and white plumage, Lucifer flies to his door and opens it wide, throwing one last glance at Alastor.
"Catch you later!" Lucifer grins – and like a shot he's out of the door – and gone from sight.
Stunned, Alastor stands there frozen, eyes landing squarely on something blindingly white in his field of vision – Lucifer's awful, ridiculous hat – still in its place in his wardrobe.
In protest, his shadow slams the door of his room shut.
A moment later, the hat winks out of existence, like a mirage.
Angrily, Alastor stalks to his wardrobe and pulls it closed with a violent yank.
The taste of coffee lingers on his tongue like a curse.
chapter twenty two
Alastor goes about his day, checking up on the Hotel's affairs, asking Niffty whether she requires more cleaning supplies (bleach – she always seems to want more of it), and doing a spot of intimidation on a pair of unruly guests who decided a scuffle was in order to settle their petty disputes outside of Charlie's mandated sessions. Alastor leaves them suitably cowed and fleeing with their tails between their legs. It does wonders for his soured mood, which leads to him taking a much deserved break from the responsibilities of managing the bare minimum required of him and going out for a spot of lunch.
With his belly full at last, he takes a stroll down the streets of Pentagram City, enjoying the occasional turf battle he comes across. The city has lost some of its flair with Sir Pentious' untimely demise, demons opting to duke it out in the open with angelic weapons drawn. Alastor sighs internally. Those things should be pointed at the Heavens, not at other wretches wriggling in the dirt, fighting over scraps.
Alastor's mind returns, annoyingly, to the events of this morning. Lucifer's little stunt with coffee, the pretense of doing a considerate thing for Alastor by sharing it… Oh, what a calculated power move that was. He'd been too flustered in the moment, discomfited by all the thoughts of involuntary angel-slaughter, as well as Lucifer's absolute shamelessness, to properly calculate the sheer manipulation of it. For Lucifer to position himself over Alastor, to kiss him – when he could have easily handed him the cup instead.
No, he went for full psychological attack with that one.
Alastor is livid every time he recalls it.
And then, to add insult to injury, were the other little surprises Lucifer had left for him – a single strawberry on the bottom of the bowl, ripe and red, like the perfect mockery of a payment for the touch he stole (Alastor chucked it into the swamp with disgust).
Alastor's robe, left draped like a vacated husk over his armchair, which still managed to smell vaguely of Lucifer an hour after he'd left, and the worst offender of all, the absolute shock he received when he stepped back into the bathroom – his mirror – fixed up and hanging on his wall like the events of last night were nothing more than a vivid nightmare.
Lucifer noticed.
He noticed the smashed mirror and chose to repair it – chose to point it out, very plainly, that he knew Alastor had lost all self-control the previous night. Alastor loathes the reminder. It burrows under his skin like a fishhook, yanking unexpectedly at the least opportune moments. It feels as if he's lost something important – misplaced an irreplaceable family heirloom – traded in a part of his soul he can never get back.
Just how many more weaknesses will he be forced to reveal while dealing with Lucifer?
An entire year of questions – three truths a day – will there be anything left of him by the end?
Maybe if he successfully distracts Lucifer, he will content himself with paltry things that are of no consequence, such as asking for various permissions instead of digging for information.
So when he makes his late afternoon rounds, simply to keep an eye on things (and remind the denizens who actually runs the place and enforces its rules), he runs into the person he least wanted to see – Lucifer himself. In the middle of the corridor, no less, so he cannot avoid him (or the daughter walking next to him). Typically for the Morningstars, they are taking up all the fucking space available – Alastor can't squeeze past them without stopping to acknowledge them first.
"Sweetie, that's a great idea!" Lucifer gushes, to Charlie's embarrassment and delight.
"You really think so, dad?"
"Of course! Who wouldn't love a good talent show?"
Alastor's eye twitches in annoyance. What fresh Hell is this now?
"Oh, I'm so excited!" Charlie squeals and jumps up, throwing herself into Lucifer's arms, who holds her up with a whoop of delight, twirling her around to a round of high-pitched giggles.
Alastor wonders when they'll notice his approach, as he's stopped in the middle of the corridor, seriously considering melting away into the nearest shadow.
Naturally, it is in that moment that Lucifer's eyes land upon him, a gleam of acknowledgment piercing through Alastor from ten feet away. He feels that prickling pull of the fishhook once more, yanking at him mercilessly.
"Greetings!" Alastor segues easily. "What are these new plans I happened to overhear by chance?"
Lucifer puts Charlie down, and she's still smiling ear to ear as she finally realizes he's there. "Oh, Alastor! So nice to run into you again – the coffee was absolutely delicious – thank you!"
"What coffee, sweetie?" Lucifer plays dumb and it's ridiculously convincing, even to Alastor who knows for a fact that Lucifer knows the taste of it most intimately by now.
"Ha ha, I forgot to tell you – Alastor accidentally made too much this morning and gave me some to try. I never knew that adding chicory root could make it taste so nice!"
Alastor's smile turns into a feral grimace. Lucifer, the absolute, dreadful, annoying little menace that he is, is trying very hard to suppress a smirk – and failing.
"Chicory root, huh?" Lucifer grins, catching Alastor's eye for a brief moment. "Must be a secret family recipe."
Alastor wants to reach out and strangle him with his bare hands.
"It's great, dad! You have to try it!"
Lucifer's smile is so smug that its radiance could power an entire city block for a week.
"Maybe I will? If Alastor wouldn't mind?"
"I would." Alastor says with undisguised antipathy. "Mind, that is."
Lucifer laughs, clearly aware that he's managed to strike a nerve.
"Aw, Alastor, I'm sorry," Charlie apologizes effusively. "Obviously, you don't have to! It would just be such a shame not to share something so lovely…"
Alastor deflects her low grade attempt at emotional manipulation with: "No matter, now if you'll excuse me…"
He's attempting to walk past them when Lucifer says in a casual tone: "Alastor, would you mind finding me later when you have the time? I would like to keep you in the loop about Charlie's plans for this event – I'm sure things would go much more smoothly if we cooperated on this."
"That's a great idea, dad!" Charlie all but squeaks, like one of those newfangled toys Hellhounds enjoy playing with.
Alastor schools his expression into something vaguely amiable and only half-turns towards them.
"I shall make sure to do so." With the tiniest incline of his head, he hurries down the corridor, trying to keep himself together.
Lucifer...
Alastor's heart hammers in his chest like he's just survived a potentially deadly encounter. His legs carry him swiftly away from the source of the danger, behind a corner and out of sight, at which point he dissolves into shadows and flees, retreating back to his quarters.
It's past eleven in the evening and Alastor is running out of excuses to not seek Lucifer out.
He'd hoped that having a few hours to himself would have calmed him down, allowed his anger to abate, but if anything, the ugly sensation has only managed to grow in the interim. One look at his parlor – at his bed – at his bathroom mirror – at the swamp where he's chucked the remains of Lucifer's morning snack – and his discomfort keeps mounting.
And to top it all off, he's been summoned. Lucifer's little message had come across loud and clear. Couldn't he have waited at least another day, given Alastor some time to reach a state of equilibrium before pulling on his chain once more? Would that have been too much to ask?
Or did Lucifer simply want his new three questions worth? It would have to wait until midnight, but Alastor has no doubt that Lucifer can keep him in his rooms as long as he wants, should he choose to.
So here he is, ten minutes past eleven at night, standing in front of Lucifer's rooms, knocking on his door with poorly contained rage, tension coiling underneath his stitches, ready to burst forth.
The doors open, revealing Lucifer who seems tired but in a relatively mellow mood.
"Ah, good, you understood me," Lucifer says softly, moving aside to let Alastor pass. "I was beginning to fear you wouldn't come."
"You called, my Lord?" Alastor says as sarcastically as he can muster. "What am I to help you with? Want me to jump through a few fire hoops for your entertainment, this fine evening?"
"Wh–what are you on about?" Lucifer asks, entirely confused by the exchange. "Is this about earlier?"
"I don't know, is it?" Alastor snaps at him.
"I just needed an excuse to see you?" Lucifer states with a puzzled little frown.
"Did you, now?" Alastor stalks into Lucifer's rooms and his shadow locks the door behind him. He doesn't believe a single word.
"Wait a moment," Lucifer shakes his head. "There seems to be some kind of misunderstanding here… What did you think I meant?"
Alastor stops. "So it wasn't an intentional slight?"
"Why would it be?" Lucifer asks, bewildered. "We weren't alone, it's not like I could have told you to just come over."
Alastor blinks a few times, trying to calm his breathing.
"Right."
"Are you…angry with me?" Lucifer asks, finally realizing just how fuming Alastor is and has been since earlier. "Why?"
"Why?"
Lucifer's concern melts away into annoyance. "Oh, are we doing the angry spouse thing now? 'You know what you did!' blah blah blah–"
"I'm not angry." Alastor says emphatically, because it's true. He's not angry, he is absolutely LIVID.
"Because I've been married for eons and I know what anger looks like." Lucifer points out, entirely non-plussed.
"Are we spouses now? Funny, I don't seem to remember making any vows." Alastor fires back mercilessly.
Lucifer goes red. "You know what I mean, asshole! Why are you antagonizing me on purpose?"
"I will stop when you do." Alastor growls. "These little emotional manipulations of yours are getting bothersome."
"Oh, MY emotional manipulations??" Lucifer cries out, outraged. "I don't get off on mind games, Alastor, that's YOUR department!"
Alastor straight up snarls, horns exploding out of his head, eyes turning to dials as the static crackles with warning.
"And what was yesterday, then?!"
Lucifer blinks. "What do you mean?"
Alastor bites his tongue not to say: 'You know exactly what I mean', and opts to loom accusingly over Lucifer instead. "Your little suicide stunt? Or are you trying to tell me that was not manipulation?"
Called out so blatantly for his actions, Lucifer gapes for a moment. "Ah… I suppose that's fair."
The moment Lucifer deflates, Alastor finds his own rage dwindling.
"Yeah, you're right. That…that wasn't fair. In my defense, I had no idea it would upset you. If anything, I thought you'd be delighted."
And he's right. Alastor DID think he'd be delighted to have Lucifer offering him all his blood and his life on a silver platter, but when the moment came – his hand faltered.
"I'm sorry, Alastor." Lucifer says sincerely, shrinking into himself, visibly tired and wan. "I…I put your room to rights as best I could."
"You think I was upset about the fucking ROOM?"
"I don't know what you're upset about!" Lucifer cries out, frustrated and miserable, walking to his bed to sit down gracelessly and bury his face in his hands.
Alastor remains rooted to the spot, breathing heavily as if he's just been running from the authorities across half the damned Bayou. His horns retreat halfway and get stuck that way, his agitation too much to allow for them to completely melt away. Lucifer is sitting on the bed, hunched and small.
Alastor feels a tear through his ribcage, worse than the wound Adam gave him. For a split second, he sees his maman, exhausted from having to deal with his father's unpredictable moods. How often has Alastor seen the like? A hundred times? A thousand?
Lucifer has tried to calm him down ever since he came in. Attempted to reason, perhaps even to joke, in his own tired and exasperated way, tried to mitigate Alastor explosive mood and…
And got more anger in return. Received threats, and vitriol and–
Alastor clamps a hand over his face in an attempt to remain quiet. Bile rises in his throat and he swallows it down, throat seizing painfully as his eyes begin to prickle.
Has he finally come full circle and turned into his father?
He wants to run from the room and scream into the nearest void. Either that or run to Lucifer's bathroom and empty the contents of his stomach once more, violently and with explosive expediency. The urge to purge himself of the accumulated weight of his sin is unbearable.
Since when? Wince when has he been like this?
A decade?
A century?
Since he was alive, towards the end?
His claws dig into the sparse flesh of his gaunt cheeks as he trembles in the middle of the room, unseen.
"I mean…are you angry about the way I left?" Lucifer asks, soft as a whisper.
Still trying to appease Alastor, like he's an abuser, returned home from work to find dinner colder than he liked.
"No." Alastor says quietly, voice unsteady.
Yes, of course he was angry about it, but he wouldn't give Lucifer the satisfaction of knowing that it got to him. That being fed coffee through a kiss left any kind of mark on him at all.
"Then… are you mad about the family recipe thing? Cause…yeah, I probably shouldn't have done that. It just…felt kind of…nice? Like a little inside joke? Haven't had anyone to share that with in an age and a half…" Lucifer says with so much self-deprecation that Alastor has to turn his head away; curtain his face off from Lucifer's mild gaze.
He cannot take it.
His breath hitches, and he clamps both hands over his mouth – whether to prevent his dinner coming up, or his cries, he doesn't know. Perhaps both.
For an agonizingly eternal moment, his entire being floods with unrelenting shame. It courses through his veins in intermittent scalding and freezing pulses, and he feels like a brittle statue left crumbling in an ancient ruin, about to be felled by a single strike of a plunderer's pickaxe.
"Alastor?" Lucifer asks, impossibly gently, like he's afraid Alastor will lash out and hurt him – strike him with the back of his hand – whip out his belt–
He spasms, hunching in on himself.
The bed creaks somewhere behind his closed eyelids.
"What's wrong?" Lucifer inquires gently – tentatively – and Alastor swallows a whimper at the careful touch of hands connecting with his upper arms. "You don't have to hold it in, you know?"
Oh, but he does. He has to. He's always had to.
There was never any alternative.
To not do so invited punishment, ridicule, and humiliation.
"I'm sorry," Lucifer says softly, just like his maman, apologizing for something that has never, ever been her fault. "I'm sorry I didn't notice I hurt you."
Alastor's eyes snap open, vision blurry as if he's stuck underwater. Hurt him?
His hands shake the same way they had when he first killed someone who didn't meet his code.
Fucked be the owner of his soul, the liar, the deceiver–
Alastor clutches at Lucifer's shoulders like a man drowning, fingers clenching and unclenching like hands slipping over a log drifting down a strong river current.
"You, hurt me?" Alastor mutters, Lucifer's concerned, compassionate expression an indistinct blur below him. "After I almost killed you earlier today? Absurd."
The concept is so backward and twisted that Alastor wants to scream.
"This… almost sounds like you're… remorseful?"
The word pierces his skull like a bullet from that fucking rifle that cut his mortal existence short. The tears that run down his face burn like acid rain, like that storm in the night, trailing down the windowpanes as Lucifer slumbered in his bed, more dead than alive.
Is he?
Is he remorseful?
Alastor would rather cut off both of his hands than kill Lucifer.
Hurt him? Perhaps. Choke him? Absolutely.
Kill him?
Cause permanent damage?
Never.
"You almost made me break my code," Alastor utters, breathless and wrecked.
"You have a code?" Lucifer asks, genuinely surprised.
"You're not a murderer. Or a rapist. Or a pedophile." Alastor clarifies. "I don't kill the innocent."
Lucifer chuckles for a second, and then starts laughing outright – hysterically – hilariously. It's jarring enough that Alastor's eyes clear for a moment.
"Innocent? Me?" Lucifer's head is thrown back, golden hair flying every which way as he laughs like madman. Or like a child. When he finally comes up for air, his eyes are almost unbearably kind in their utter disbelief. "I have not been called innocent since before my fall – I don't even remember anymore!"
Alastor's trembling hands crawl up as gently as he can make them, until they are cradling Lucifer's head.
"You ended up in Hell because you fought for our freedom, as well as your own."
"Pride goes before the Fall," Lucifer says mildly, but Alastor can see the ancient wound etched into his face, bleeding out of every pore.
"Unlike the rest of us – you don't belong here." Alastor says firmly. "You never did."
Lucifer gapes, grasping for words, but they elude him entirely. Instead, he reaches for Alastor cheek with his left hand and gently brushes his tears away – like he's doing it to someone deserving, someone far better than Alastor ever was, even when he was pure and unspoiled.
"Apology accepted," Lucifer says softly, looking up at him with far more tenderness and grace than Alastor knows what to do with.
"That wasn't an apology ," Alastor states bluntly. "It was an admission of guilt."
Lucifer smiles, as warm as summer dawn over the Bayou.
"From you? It's close enough."
Absolution. From the very person whom he nearly killed.
Just another proof that Lucifer has been wrongfully imprisoned – and Hell was the worst punishment imaginable, not because he suffered eternally, but precisely because the people he freed did. And to think Alastor threw it in his face, like a complete monster.
"I won't ask for forgiveness," Alastor warns him, leaning closer.
"I didn't think you would," Lucifer says with a wry smile.
Suddenly tired, Alastor leans his forehead against Lucifer's.
I don't deserve it anyway, Alastor thinks.
"But you have it," Lucifer murmurs. "Forgiveness. If you want it."
Alastor buries his right hand in Lucifer's hair and breathes out shakily. "I don't."
A lie – what's another, in the grand scheme of things?
"Suit yourself," Lucifer says mildly and touches Alastor's hair gently.
"I don't want to fight anymore," Alastor confesses, like a sinner lying prostrate before the altar.
"You don't have to." Lucifer soothes him, fingers cool and pleasant against Alastor's feverish skin.
If only that were true, Alastor thinks. How nice would that be?
"I don't want to be angry anymore…" Alastor admits, weary from the painful contortion he's put his soul into.
"It's alright," Lucifer offers comfort and Alastor knows, in that moment, that he truly means it. That it's freely given, with no ulterior motives, no games, no ploys. "You don't have to pretend in front of me."
"Pretend?" Alastor squeezes out, flagging in Lucifer's hands.
Lucifer's brief laugh feels like a vice around his heart. "We're both broken here, you've nothing to prove to me."
That would be a first.
Drawn by an impulse he barely understands, Alastor pulls Lucifer into an embrace, holding him tightly against his chest. Lucifer doesn't fight it, doesn't even utter a peep of complaint, embracing him as easily as breathing while Alastor is standing there, face buried in his hair and feeling like a well-shaken box of broken glass shards rattling in transit as the liquor inside sloshes around, dripping into the undercarriage of the car.
With a flurry of rustling noise, Lucifer's beautiful wings unfurl and wrap around them both like a privacy screen, Alastor's world suddenly narrowed to crimson and white feathers, and endlessly soft hair that smells faintly of sulfur and apple cider.
"No one can see or hear us. The room is tamper-proof with my strongest wards."
"Since when?" Alastor asks, nose and lips buried in golden hair as soft as clouds.
"Since our first night together." Lucifer murmurs against his chest, arms tightening around Alastor's torso.
For me? He did it for me?
After I bloodied him?
After I took pleasure in hurting him?
Alastor starts crying once again, shaking and powerless to stop it. The humiliation and the shame burn on their way out, his tiny, aborted cries muffled in Lucifer's hair.
"It's alright," Lucifer says softly as he strokes his back.
No, it's not. It will never be right.
Because it's too late, far too late now. If Alastor's father deserved death, what does Alastor deserve then, if not something far, far worse?
"I know you said you didn't want it…but I forgive you anyway."
Alastor swallows a sob and accepts the grace he doesn't deserve but has so generously been given.