Chapter Text
The thing about Lucifer Morningstar is that the mere sight of him fills Alastor with more exasperation than he has the energy to spare.
It had always been a matter of time before only one of them would remain a resident of the Hazbin Hotel, and Alastor does carry some regret that he wasn’t the one to outlast the King, as a matter of principle. But alas, he had bigger fish to fry.
Not that there could possibly be smaller fish, even in the vast and resplendent oceans of Envy.
From day one, Lucifer’s short stature irked Alastor in ways he could barely begin to explain. So much power and authority in Lucifer’s name; in his reputation upstairs.
And all of that, utterly wasted on his chosen presentation. One so diminutive it would be easily overlooked were it not for his embarrassingly loud choice of attire. Not to mention the erratic way in which the King of Hell chooses to carry himself, in turn too bold and brash, drawing the attention of all right in time to do something undignified; or curled in on himself, like the weight of all the layers of Hell, Heaven and Earth rest upon his small frame, desperate as he is to go unnoticed.
Not for the first time, Alastor mourns the fact that the amount of power in Lucifer’s title alone would never go wasted on him. But he plays the hand he was dealt with, forced to watch as Lucifer folds again and again, yet remains undethronable.
There’s not a trace of royal dignity to be found on the Devil’s face either, whenever Alastor has the misfortune of running into him. He’s either gazing after Charlie with unbecomingly huge, hopeful eyes, desperately wanting to chime into her conversations, yet too afraid to intrude; or allowing his milk-white complexion to curdle, as his whole expression shrivels up when Alastor taunts him for it.
Original temptation. Hah. The bar was in Hell before Hell even existed, when the only competition for the title was Adam.
And yet…
If one were to momentarily forget all of the above, one might be forced to admit that at least the Devil’s voice is not wholly detestable.
One such as a Radio Demon, tied to a wheely chair backstage.
There’s not much to observe, now that everyone has rushed into position, leaving him alone in a dimly lit wing. No one to verbally torment for some light distraction – surely he can forgive himself for instinctively leaning forwards, tugging against the cables holding him back (if looser and looser by the day), as he tries to catch Lucifer’s performance outside.
For it is a performance. Mere posturing, nothing more. Alastor knows this – and, most unfortunately for their little ruler, so does Vox.
But, ah, while Alastor can be accused of many things, he will not be indicted for being a poor audience.
Besides, things have been less than grand for the past week or so. At present, he fears his tailbone may be permanently molding to this chair. His lower back aches, and he has to keep wriggling and spinning around to keep the blood running in his legs, his bony body prone to cutting off its own circulation.
There’s also always the chance Vox may choose to escalate his little ego-boosting exercises. It’s rather in character that, by all appearances, he started off with the worst he was immediately willing to do to Alastor, but there’s always a chance – Alastor shakes his head. Enough. Enough.
Against that background, really it should be no surprise that Lucifer’s voice… almost calms him. Somewhat. It sinks into his skin, assuaging the need he constantly feels back here to crack a few bones and expand into something Vox wouldn’t dare touch; or to dissolve altogether into something Vox couldn’t reach.
Lucifer’s voice is perfectly controlled, the one thing the King seems to be in control of, and there’s something about how… right it sounds, that settles Alastor’s very being. For a moment, Hell is Lucifer’s again, not just Vox’s playground. As the tune reaches him, he finds himself relaxing into his chair – doing so for the very first time naturally, without an audience to fool.
All from hearing Lucifer sing.
Hell exists now, and would you just look at how many bars fit in it.
But undeniably, there’s something about hearing Lucifer again that brings back a sense of… normalcy, one that’s been slipping between Alastor’s fingers and that he’s been helpless to hold back.
That must be it. The familiarity, the reminder of an easier day-to-day, when he was able to do as he pleased around the hotel – to a large extent – that must be why Lucifer’s voice soothes him, if even just the most infinitesimal amount.
There’s an energy to Lucifer’s performance that makes Alastor’s blood hum quietly in return – something that reminds Alastor that he has a heartbeat, as a feeling dangerously akin to hope whispers against his skin. He’s got his own agenda well in hand, but the reminder that the Vees and the endless shadows cast by their giant egos is not all there is even now – well, it’s a twinkle of starlight in the dark.
All well and good to know that glimmer is there, but one might well run into a tree if they stick their nose up in the air to follow its light.
Still. There’s a call in the way Lucifer sings, a call for a response, and Alastor’s ears twitch towards the stage, not quite understanding their owner’s current position and limitations.
There’s cruel irony there, no doubt. That the person who raises his hackles when everything is perfectly mundane is the one to soothe his flayed nerves after he’s thrown everything in his afterlife off-balance. It should be intolerable.
But Lucifer’s attempt to steal Vox’s show – deliciously condescendingly, no less – is something Alastor can simply… enjoy. He’d wondered what Lucifer would come up with, when Vox cackled and told Alastor about the hotel’s plans to get Vox to leave dear Charlie alone. He’s pleased that the answer to that question is ‘an entertaining show’.
There’s something about the way Lucifer wields his voice that’s always intrigued Alastor. Where Alastor constantly wears a smile on his face to obfuscate the emotions people may lend to his words and intentions, not only does Lucifer wear his heart on his sleeve, he uses his voice to double down on the feelings he carries. His voice pitches up and down faster than any roller-coaster in his eponymous theme park, tone gravelly and low in anger one second and high-pitched and nasally in mockery the next.
While it does nothing but aggravate Alastor when directed at him, when directed at Vox, he can appreciate the artistry of it. Perhaps his voice does not only serve to betray how the King is feeling, after all. Perhaps there’s intentionality there – one hundred different characters portrayed in a minute. Obfuscating.
Almost as effective as a smile.
Alastor almost fails to notice how he’s slowly rolled his chair down the wing and closer to the stage itself – writhed and pulled himself along, straining to try and hear Lucifer more directly, without all the speakers and effects he’s layered on top of his own voice to mock Vox’s sense of flair. Everything within Alastor is stretched like he’s moments away from snapping, and only Lucifer’s performance has offered him any respite all week, maybe if he could just hear it more clearly, see the show for himself – maybe it’d give him back some of that deeper-seated sense of control he usually possesses, that he’s had to give up just a fraction of lately (yet it feels like he’s carved off enough of himself to form another sentient shadow). Lucifer’s voice makes him feel like his usual confidence and self-assurance is just within reach.
But it’s all over far too quickly.
Alastor ignores the sinking feeling in his gut, the crushing feeling grinding his shoulderblades to dust, when Vox easily rips the control of the show from Lucifer’s uncertain grasp. What’s even worse, Vox hardly acknowledges Lucifer’s act in his own musical response – a pre-planned one that took no heed of whatever the specifics of Lucifer’s own interruption would be.
It makes for a poor show, in Alastor’s honest opinion. Too polished and rehearsed, edited to perfection, that hardly takes advantage of the fact that Lucifer is right there, on stage, to the fullest extent.
In a moment of blind insanity, Alastor wonders if Lucifer might try and dive backstage to hide – and what Lucifer would do if he saw him.
But the other two Vees trap him on stage, and Alastor hears nothing further from Lucifer that day.
The next time Alastor hears Lucifer, he’s singing again. A ridiculous little tune, this time, not crafted to intimidate his enemies, only to – to what, exactly, Alastor couldn’t say. Expel nervous energy, perhaps, as he believes he’s about to reunite with his daughter.
He can see the silly little dance the King does to match his musical mutterings, and Alastor is not moved to interfere in the slightest. He could, he never would have taken a deal with Vox which would have forced him to stay silent – and suspects Vox wouldn’t have wanted that anyway – but he needs a few more pieces on the chessboard. It just so happens that these are the same two pieces Vox is still missing, so he’s happy to let Vox’s plan play out.
Need to break a few eggs to make an omelette.
(Can Lucifer break?)
In no time at all, he’s staring at Lucifer, in his little glass cage, and he’d laugh at it, any of it, if it weren’t all just so… relatable. Lucifer tugs at his restraints. Alastor does not need to mirror him to know exactly what the absence of give feels like, although his restraints are not visible in the same way.
They argue. They’re dragged to their respective positions in Vox’s grand plan.
Alastor almost forgets all about what he felt at the rally.
Almost.
But when all is said and done, Vox reduced to nothing more than another screen in V-Tower, Alastor restored as the hotelier of the Hazbin Hotel – that feeling repeatedly makes itself known.
It’s an early morning at the hotel, and as is typical, Alastor is in the kitchen alone. Charlie will come down soon, if she remembers to have breakfast before rushing off to seize the day and implement whatever redemption plan she’s come up with overnight.
There, he can hear her footsteps approaching. But then his ear twitches – she’s not alone.
He resolutely keeps his back to the door and busies himself by refilling the coffee machine.
When Charlie and Lucifer step into the kitchen, they’re laughing together.
Lucifer’s efforts to impress his daughter are thoroughly deplorable – but on the rare occasion he does successfully make her laugh, it always seems to impact the wider troops positively. It’s always baffled Alastor, but hearing them like this in the early hours of the morning… There’s something warming about Lucifer’s sincere laugh, seldom heard among his nervous or forced ones, and it slips into Alastor’s chest in the spaces his morning coffee has yet to fill.
Alastor almost cracks his own ribcage to seal the gaps, before any more of that warmth seeps through, unwelcome.
But the sound truly is pleasant, the background buzz of it sinks into his veins and carries a flitting tingle through his body – it’s so soft but fleeting, and Alastor accidentally lets his static hum louder in approval.
Immediately, Lucifer’s laughter ceases.
“Oh, look who’s here to poison our coffee.”
“Dad –”
“Nonsense!” Alastor replies, still without turning around, actioning all the right levers to ground the coffee beans now he’s weighed them all out. “If you deigned rising with those of us who have a job, your Majesty, you would know I do this every morning, and there have been zero poisoning incidents. So far.”
“Alastor –”
“Hah, should I be worried, bellhop?”
“I was not expecting you this morning. But if you do choose to make waking up at a sensible hour a new habit of yours, I can certainly make arrangements, and set a special cup aside just for you!”
“Har har, I would drink it if it meant no longer having to deal with you!”
As Charlie pleads with Lucifer to see if perhaps, maybe, he could try to get through a few hours of the day without starting on her hotel manager, Alastor reaches for mugs and smirks to himself. He’d been rather taken by the whole exchange – the easy back and forth lulling him rather easily into a sense of security he wouldn’t normally let himself feel. Lucifer’s put upon annoyance with Alastor even as he cannot help but engage him, the snark escalating into frustration, all of his little inflexions and injections are familiar steps of an old dance now. Old, but never any less entertaining. An additional soothing ingredient to a coffee which already promises to be perfect.
But the second Alastor turns around and lays his eyes on Lucifer, the moment is ruined.
The obnoxious little Devil is shooting glares at him even as he tries to appease Charlie; and worse yet, far more unforgivable than Lucifer’s insufferable face, he is wearing that… hideous pink robe of his. It looks so ridiculous that it makes Alastor feel every shade of uncomfortable, cheeks heating up in embarrassment for him. No doubt some sort of misplaced empathy he’s developed for this scenario only, as terrible as it is to feel for the Devil.
Does their King have no sense of decorum? No, nobody answer that – Alastor cannot deal with this.
He storms out of the kitchen, his own mug firmly in hand, two steaming mugs abandoned on the counter.
On another day, in the evening this time, Alastor is poring over some accounts in the office. The one that still houses some of the boards Charlie uses for her more elaborate plans, on the ground floor, even though Charlie has a much grander space on one of the upper floors in the rebuilt hotel.
It’s getting late, and as the guests gradually retreat to bed or head out with the intention of coming back in the early morning, the hotel falls quiet.
That’s when Alastor hears it.
Lucifer’s boisterous laughter echoing down empty halls, from where he must be sitting at the bar and attempting to make friends with Husker. Possibly at Charlie’s request that he finally get to know her staff better; possibly because Husker stands between him and the drinks. Certainly not because he’s interested in getting to know a sinner at all, but ah, glass houses, Alastor can abstain from judgement where the other is acting upon a hidden agenda.
There’s something so… lively, about the way the King speaks, now that Alastor cannot help but hear him. The way it sways up and down tells a story that’s easy to follow even without any words. Alastor does so enjoy a narrative with good twists and turns. The ghost of a shiver brushes down his back as he tunes into Lucifer’s voice without thinking. The numbers on the pages in front of him cease to matter as he hangs onto every note, leaning forward without meaning to, to catch all of it.
Alastor does not notice the way his body turns to put the documents away when the voice trails off, and gets up to leave when the bar area falls silent, all on auto-pilot.
Which causes him to run into Lucifer in the lobby.
Lucifer’s face twists, and Alastor knows his face must be mirroring the exact same look of disgust.
“Oh, great, and I was having such a lovely evening so far,” Lucifer says, too loudly – possibly to cover the hint of fatigue Alastor can hear creeping into the edge of his words.
“With Husker? Please, there’s no need to lie, your Majesty, I know he makes for terrible company.”
“Even if he did, being in your presence would always be far worse.”
“Well, you’ll be delighted to hear that I am getting out of your hair, I’m retiring for the evening. Good night.”
“Oh, don’t rush away on my account, I was just heading to bed myself!”
It takes a second for them both to realise that they’re heading up the same stairs, to the same floor.
“Absolutely not.”
“Fuck this.”
Alastor dissolves into the shadows at the same time as Lucifer’s portal opens in a glimmer of golden and scarlet sparkles.
But the impression of the evening, less symphony than solo performance, lodges itself in a corner of Alastor’s mind.
He finds himself lingering at game nights, which he used to actively avoid. It’s not so bad to find an unoccupied chair nearby to read. (Attempt to read. Read very slowly.) It gives him good intel on the residents, it really is for the best he keeps tabs on them.
And if he gets to hear more of how Lucifer addresses others, and if that seems to quell the static that buzzes on the inside of Alastor’s skull at the end of most days, then that’s just a fortunate happenstance.
The way Lucifer speaks to Alastor and the way Lucifer speaks in the presence of those who are not Alastor – it’s day and night. The voice that floats across the lounge is as warm as the fire that crackles in the fireplace, dancing across the room as lightly as the flames towards which Alastor’s limbs stretch. And yet… before the other sinners, Lucifer’s speech is halting, hesitant, the man starting and stopping like the roads to successful social interactions are full of wholly unfamiliar signs. He makes awkward jokes at the wrong times, and lets himself be interrupted by complete nobodies.
It’s baffling. It’s like his perpetual anger and dislike of Alastor actually helps him string words together confidently, in a way Lucifer cannot manage with other sinners. The rush of white hot rage Alastor inspires in him, perhaps. Or rehearsed taunts, Lucifer is not above practicing winning an argument with Alastor before his mirror (not that he ever wins in front of Alastor in flesh and blood, anyways).
His speech patterns were yet again different when – with Vox, if Alastor’s not mistaken. Lucifer was also unhesitant, but there was a strong sense of dismissal and disinterest in his every word. Lucifer was the one interrupting then, seeming more interested in getting back to insulting Alastor than listening to Vox, even though Vox would have been the one able to provide explanations when – back then.
Almost like Lucifer missed Alastor, and, hah, isn’t that a thought, when Lucifer had been the one to make Alastor leave in the first place.
The thought that does take root, however, is that Lucifer does seem to have a comfortable manner of addressing Alastor that is truly reserved for him and him alone. And yes, Alastor worked to be the only one to get on Lucifer’s last nerve in quite that spectacular a manner, but the thought flutters pleasantly in his stomach – where his hunger for more always drives him.
He carries that sensation all the way back upstairs, where it still refuses to dissipate.
It warms in the hollow space beneath his ribcage, heated by the fire and a voice just like it, before spreading through his veins and bringing a flush to his skin. If he cuts out the halting words spoken this evening – and perhaps the person they were attached to, for good measure – there’s something about that voice that almost puts Alastor into a trancelike state, low, melodious – beautiful.
Alastor almost jolts at how that word fits – like he’s been consciously refusing to slot the obvious puzzle piece into place.
But so long as no one can take advantage of his thoughts on the matter, well, yes. Fine. Maybe, just maybe, he can admit to himself that Lucifer’s voice is beautiful. It can be something for Alastor to secretly enjoy. There isn’t that much of that sort of thing at the hotel.
Other than bickering with the man himself during the day.
Which… surely, there’s no connection there.
It was a mistake to let that feeling nestle in behind the gaunt panes of his stomach, where, now that he’s reached his room, it refuses to leave.
As he tries to wind down for the night, Alastor’s own mind betrays him, conjuring the sound of Lucifer’s voice – why did it bother retaining any of that, when his cane allows him to capture voices with exacting precision? It’s like he’s back downstairs, but even closer now, and the spectre of the sound somehow has a very real effect on Alastor.
The voice stirs something in his pulse, almost like the echoes of what he felt at the rally. It’s like he’s called to move, energy flowing within him that he does not know how to release. He’s forced to get up again and pace his room, shoulders tense, a hand pressed against his sternum as if to stifle the uncomfortably loud heartbeat coming from it.
It does occur to him, embarrassingly late, that he could have just switched his radio on, filled his apparent need for background noise with something he’s much more comfortable indulging in. But instead, he lets himself play and replay that bright and rich tone for a little longer.
Only when his shadow smirks at him knowingly, does he finally tune into the airwaves with a snarl, searching for a song he likes, determined to put the King’s voice out of his head at last.
The coup de grace, the final nail in Alastor’s coffin, comes after yet another festive event thrown at the hotel. Alastor has lost track of what they’re celebrating this time, but keeping morale high is, apparently, vital to keeping sinners on track for redemption.
Alastor isn’t entirely convinced that keeping the alcohol flowing the way they do encourages anyone to act in accordance with spotless morals, but far be it from him to comment on redemption plans - that’s step one to getting involved.
He is on clean-up duty the next day, by virtue of wanting the hotel to be clean again, preferably sooner than it is on track to be without his help. Unsurprisingly, most of the staff are dodging the clean-up draft, which means he, Husker and Niffty are looking after the bulk of the work.
Just as Alastor’s finishing putting away all of Charlie’s endlessly re-usable, nondescript party decorations, Niffty comes running to him, visibly distressed.
“Alastor, Alastor, they’ve made a huge mess in the staff lounge.” She stands on her tip toes and sways side to side as she says huge.
“Surely it’s nothing you can’t handle, my dear,” Alastor replies easily, snapping his fingers for his poppets to sweep the lobby and get rid of the confetti littering the floor.
Niffty shakes her head. “It’s bad, Alastor, I’ll need to get my sewing kit to fix the couch, the pillows, the curtains,” she waves her arms around, “everything!”
“Well then, best get started, Niffty, darling,” he says, sighing as the poppets try to balance on each other’s shoulders to use a broomstick like a human – and fail miserably, toppling over and rolling around the floor they’re meant to clean.
“But, Alastor,” Nifty whines, “this is usually the time I’d get started on the hotel rooms, and if I’m late getting to them, the rats might think they stand a chance!”
Ah. A routine issue – while Niffty is usually very good at going with the flow, she does get attached to a few anchors in her life. Her apron. Alastor himself. And, apparently, her regularly scheduled rat duels for hotel bedroom territories.
“Niffty, I do need you to make the communal spaces spotless, and I only trust you to do it,” Alastor decides. “I’ll see to the rooms,” he says, waving his poppets towards the stairs and handing the broomstick to his shadow. Who promptly floats away to palm it off to Husker.
“Okay, thank you, Alastor!” And Niffty scampers away.
Only to return later, this time teary-eyed, as Alastor watches his poppets finish scrubbing up the lobby floor (mopping was out of the question for the uncoordinated little monsters, so scrub brushes it is), sipping a drink from the nearly fully restocked bar.
“There’s such huge stains on the walls,” she wails, “and you and Husk are almost done, and I’ve fallen behind, and am I not good at cleaning anymore?”
“Niffty, dearest, you’re doing marvellously,” Alastor assures her, feeling a headache come on already. “I’ve entrusted you with the most challenging rooms because no one else would have any hope of restoring them to their former glory. But please dear, do go finish up now – if it makes you feel any better, I’ll make sure Husker has plenty to do so he doesn’t finish before you.”
Husker shoots him a glare, but a look at Niffty’s huge, wet, single eye has him biting back any complaint. “Yeah, Niff, I’ll still be here when you’re done, don’t worry.”
Of course he would be, chores or not – they’re at the bar. Sneaky kitty.
Nifty’s eye darts between the two of them, before she croaks out an “okay,” and scurries off again.
Alastor goes about his day, after that. When he returns much later, he gives the common areas a cursory inspection, trusting everything will be as it should. He trusts so little, that when he does, there’s no chance he’s mistaken – everything gleams anew, not a single thread of a single rug out of place.
Excellent work, Niffty.
She might enjoy hearing that, actually. Alastor calls out her name to the empty rooms.
No response, now that’s rather unusual. He begins to search for her – he can feel that she’s in the hotel, if he tugs on the right threads. Gently, not so as to alarm her.
Finally, as he approaches the staff room, he can hear her.
And him.
Nevermind! He can catch Niffty another time.
He goes to turn right back around swiftly – but then Lucifer’s words float over the threshold and graze his ears, and it’s enough to hold him in place.
“You’ve been working real hard around here, haven’t you. I guess the hotel wouldn’t be what it is without you. With the mess people make of the place, it can’t be easy.”
Lucifer’s tone is …soft – much softer than Alastor gets to hear it. Than he has heard it, in fact, since Lucifer promised Charlie her meeting in Heaven. A lifetime ago.
From his muted tones, Lucifer may well have even crouched down in front of Niffty. The thought of Lucifer being quite so gentle to her, the only one who might deserve it in this rotten pit of a city, makes Alastor feel something that he can tell is translating onto his face, and he needs to leave.
But he doesn’t.
“I know we started off on the wrong foot. That I’m not, ah, well, the ‘Bad Boy’ you’d hoped for. But I hope we can work together to make Charlie’s dream come true,” Lucifer continues.
Beautiful. Lucifer’s voice resonates at just the right frequency to slip into Alastor’s skull, wholly unwelcome, yet able to make a home there, unremovable, try as Alastor may to evict it.
His heartbeat picks up, as it would if it detected a threat, and perhaps that’s what it is, a threat to his sanity. His hair stands up on end as Alastor feels… warmer, yet he knows there’s no fireplace inside the room he’s shamelessly eavesdropping on.
Lucifer continues to praise Niffty for her skill, having seemingly witnessed the state of the room before she worked her magic – metaphorically speaking, it’s all real skill of course – and Alastor finds himself holding his breath, so not even the sound of his breathing can get between his ears and every note of Lucifer’s voice.
“Good job. I know Charlie is grateful for your support, and uhm, if she is, so am I.”
With horror, Alastor realises that his eyes are attempting to fall shut, as if to allow him to feel like those warm, enveloping words are being addressed to him.
He cannot let this go on, and he determinedly swings his cane around before barging in.
Gone are the tears that were pooling in her eye when he last saw her. Niffty is positively beaming, cheeks flushed with pleasure from Lucifer’s praise, and suddenly, Alastor wants to swallow back the praise he himself had for her, a darkness overshadowing whatever pride he’d held for her in his chest. It wraps around his heart and cinches in, squeezing uncomfortably.
It’s not like the sight of the king’s face has ever filled him with joy, either, so perhaps it’s no surprise that his mood sours immediately upon laying eyes on him. Although that felt… slightly different to usual.
The words that spring to his mouth, however, are all perfectly standard. “Is this your way of helping, your Majesty? Encouraging Niffty to do all the hard work, as you refuse to stoop so low as to undertake any of the cleaning yourself?”
“I’m sorry, what areas did you personally clean?” Lucifer shoots right back, straightening up and pinning Alastor with an unimpressed stare. “I didn’t see you around either, but you see, I was given official errands to run because, unlike others, I can be trusted to leave the hotel and make it back on the same day!”
Alastor’s grin twists into a grimace, and he can only hiss with fury, static rising around them.
But it’s like he’s observing the scene from his shadow’s point of view, from an unexpected distance. Even as Lucifer speaks, Alastor tries to reconcile the man he’s seeing and the voice he was listening to, and he can’t – or can he? He pays closer attention, recognising Lucifer’s unpredictable cadence – he speaks so animatedly, there’s something so lively, no, alive, in his every word.
Lucifer sighs. “And didn’t you quit? What happened to that, if your resignation got stuck in the paperwork I can speed that up for you.”
Alastor’s grin sharpens once more. “When I heard how much joy my departure brought you, I hurried right back.”
“Charlie should at least make you interview again,” Lucifer grumbles, “I still don’t get why she sees you as a friend. Hey, uhm, you,” he says, turning to Niffty, “Why do any of you even like this guy?”
Alastor tunes out Niffty’s excited presentation on why he is great, actually (he’s heard it before, although he does enjoy a repeat every now and again), in favour of refocusing on Lucifer’s responses (they are delightfully disgruntled).
Alive, huh. Maybe that’s what has captured Alastor’s attention so. The voice of the living is quite rare, down here, in Pride. Maybe there’s something there that’s perfectly natural to feel pulled towards.
He pointedly ignores the fact that if that were true, people would have listened to Charlie much earlier on.
“...Alastor? Hell to Al, hello,” Lucifer sing-songs, waving his hand in front of Alastor’s face. “Stayed up late for the party and too sleepy to function today?”
Alastor shoos the King away irritably, and speaks before his mind is truly fully present. “I was just looking to make sure everything was well with dear Niffty.”
Lucifer’s expression freezes for a moment, and he blinks like his brain is buffering. Then he glances down at Niffty, expression still unchanged.
Alastor braces himself for mock surprise at the fact that Alastor would look out for anyone – a slip on his part, but then again, he wouldn’t be so careless about what he owns.
But instead, Lucifer’s expression relaxes, his eyes releasing some of the tension they always hold around Alastor, be it in anger or to guard his own thoughts. “She did a great job, today,” is all he says.
It’s directed at Niffty – but there it is again, that soft tone, a hum at just the right frequency to resonate at the back of Alastor’s neck and roll down his spine. Alastor’s poker face is well honed, but he can feel the way his ears perk up at Lucifer’s comment.
“The hotel is like new, thanks to her,” Lucifer continues. Niffty is grinning again, and, satisfied his praise has been well received, Lucifer looks back up.
Maybe he forgets who he’s speaking to. Maybe his brain doesn’t switch gears fast enough. Entirely possible, knowing Lucifer. Either way, the King’s tone does not shift back to the sarcastic, mocking one Alastor is used to having addressed to him.
Instead, quietly, in a manner that’s almost conspiratorial, or intimate, Lucifer murmurs, “I think we’ve all done enough for today?”
It leaves Alastor reeling, the newfound knowledge of what a delicate Lucifer can sound like floods his mind, and Alastor blinks rapidly in an attempt to stop his brain from recording the sound against his will. A futile effort.
He feels winded, but grits his teeth and manages to snarl, “That’s for me to decide.”
Except, the moment Niffty turns her big, hopeful eye on him, he folds with a sigh.
“Well done for today, my dear. Thank you for your hard work, now do go get some rest.”
She giggles, and after calling out a Good night! to them both, she dashes off.
Leaving Alastor and Lucifer in the room.
Alastor expects Lucifer to glare at him and magically ‘poof’ himself away, as he is oh so fond of doing. But instead, Lucifer stays rooted in place, and tilts his head to the side. His hat amplifies the effect, turning his whole body into a cartoonish question mark.
“Huh. I didn’t expect you to actually let her go.” Distractible as always, Alastor’s unexpected behaviour seemingly enough to hold him back.
“I’m not a slave driver, thank you very much,” Alastor replies, rubbing his claws against the lapel of his jacket.
But why isn’t Alastor leaving either?
“No, sorry, how could I forget, you own their souls, not their bodies,” Lucifer laughs humourlessly, “my mistake.”
Alastor hisses with indignation, not liking what Lucifer is implying in the slightest – Alastor does treat those two things differently, as a matter of fact, not that he’d expect someone so detached from the reality of Hell to understand that – but before he can reply, Lucifer has already moved on.
“Still though…” he begins again.
Like his comment was nothing. Like he does not understand the gravity of his own accusations (it’s likely he doesn’t). Like they did not get to Alastor far more than Alastor would ever admit.
“She’s kinda endearing, I guess. She grows on you.” Lucifer looks towards where Niffty darted off to. “I can see why you keep her around.”
There’s that tone again. Lacking any anger, any bite – but also lacking any of that hesitation Lucifer shows around other sinners. Like all of his rage for Alastor is still there, right under the surface, keeping him steady.
It’s not like he’s trying to make himself likeable to Alastor, at the end of the day, so it all rather makes sense.
“She’s compliant enough,” Alastor sniffs.
Lucifer sincerely laughs at that. It’s a loud, horrible noise, and Alastor’s ears strain towards it; his eyes fall shut against his will, as he takes it all in, another sound logged in his brain, recorded for – for what?
This is not exactly broadcast material, and neither would he replay this to himself, so why…?
“Are you counting down from ten or something?” Lucifer interrupts his train of thought. “I’m done, alright? You are so impatient, ever considered working on that in the therapy sessions my daughter’s wonderful hotel offers?”
Alastor raises a hand to ask him why he always feels the need to test his patience, but Lucifer does not give him the chance. He’d already been getting better at cutting off Alastor’s interjections before – everything – recent events – and clearly he’s not letting that particularly infuriating skill go to waste.
“Alastor,” the King says, painfully gentle – quite literally so, as his voice makes Alastor’s flesh and bone crumble to something so dry and brittle, like a gust of wind could rend him to dust, which would only serve to ruin the hotel’s now immaculate floors. “It’s fine, you can just say you don’t mind looking after her. Listen, especially after you pretended to care for Charlie like a daughter – which, I know you don’t, you sick bastard – why would it be such a big deal to just… I don’t know. Openly care for that little one?”
Lucifer could have said that viciously. Arrogantly. Or any other way he’d normally address Alastor that does not drive him insane.
Maybe that’s precisely why Lucifer doesn’t.
Alastor grasps for normalcy. “She works for me, your Majesty. And if I wish for her to perform well, which I do, she does need to get her rest. Trust me, you do not want to see dear little Niffty sleep-deprived. She somehow has even more energy in that state and none of us want to be dealing with that.”
So much for normalcy. That last statement was only partially a threat. The rest of it was just a statement of fact – sharing information he did not need to share.
“Uh huh,” Lucifer replies immediately. Like a shark smelling blood in the water, on the rare occasion his mind isn’t a million miles away. “So like, pretending you care about Charlie is no problem for you because you don’t, but when you do care, that’s when your words fail you?”
Static rises sharply around them, but Lucifer shrugs it off. “That poor girl,” he sighs dramatically, shaking his head. Alastor vaguely wonders how his hat never just flops off, with how animated the King can get. “She was nearly crying when I found her, by the way, but don’t worry! I helped her out and she was all smiles again. That’s right, I’ll steal your daughter too, bitch –”
“She’s not my daughter!” Alastor feels compelled to clarify, wholly unclear on the inner workings of Lucifer’s mind.
“Yeah, no, don’t worry, I’d kinda figured,” Lucifer says.
Surely he should feel some concern that he needed to reassure Alastor that he was, in fact, capable of figuring that out for himself; but then again, there are many things Lucifer should feel concerned about that he simply… doesn’t.
“She can be sorta cute when she chills out, whereas, no offence, your whole face is uh…” He points at Alastor while drawing circles with his wrist, loosely indicating Alastor’s whole head. “Yeah, no.”
Alastor glares. “I do not especially enjoy your face either!” Not his brightest comeback, he’ll admit – but, shockingly, it finds its mark.
Lucifer gasps and sputters. “Wha – excuse me, this is perfection, right here, how – how dare you!”
This isn’t working.
Even their usual bickering is no longer enough to distract Alastor from noticing how, even when he’s irritated, Lucifer’s voice still holds that rich, entrancing warmth. One that could command authority, as used as Alastor is to dismissing it, but interspersed with glimpses of a sound so… innocent. Youthful.
It’s the sort of voice that the choir back home would have killed for, and the irony of that thought isn’t lost on him. Instead, that choir was stuck with him as soloist, and him with them, as long as his mother had a say.
Alastor’s saving grace is that Lucifer continues to be the most aggravating individual he has ever had the displeasure of meeting, and while his words sound pleasant, their meaning continues to rile Alastor up beyond all comprehension.
Lucifer’s rant cuts out abruptly, much like his ability to hold coherent thoughts. “Hang on a second. So… If it’s not my face you enjoy, what’s going on?”
Feedback squeals as Alastor’s grip on his microphone threatens its only newly recovered integrity. “What does that even – where in the seven Rings has that come from?”
“It’s just that I feel like I’ve been seeing you more lately,” Lucifer shrugs. “I could understand if it was the face, everyone loves the face, but…” His eyes dart between Alastor’s quickly, sharp, assessing, and Alastor does not like it one bit. “No. You’re right, I don’t think that’s it… not for you.” His voice trails off, as if thinking to himself.
In a moment of blind foolishness, Alastor almost leans forward to follow that voice like a whiff of perfume caught in the air. He has to consciously pull himself back to avoid embarrassing himself.
Then Lucifer takes a sudden step forwards, and Alastor overcompensates, stumbling backwards awkwardly.
Lucifer’s eyebrows raise slowly, like he’s not surprised by Alastor’s reaction, and a smug grin spreads across his face.
“Oh,” he breathes, “I’m on to something. You never back off, Bambi, something is up.”
Alastor is cornered. He can tell from the way Lucifer’s gaze holds him trapped, the Devil eyeing Alastor exactly the way Alastor observes a potential victim as he looks for their weakness. No – finding it, and honing in on it.
“You’re delusional,” Alastor replies through gritted teeth, “while I understand that might be part and parcel of being Pride’s official representative, some things simply aren’t all about you!”
Lucifer leans in closer. “Really?” He asks, just loud enough to fill the space between them, voice dropped to a low pitch.
Deadly.
“Are you absolutely sure?”
There it is again, that perfect frequency, the one that sinks straight into Alastor’s bloodstream and allows warmth to bloom just under his skin; but delivered so intentionally, it doesn’t stop at gliding tantalisingly down his spine – from there, the liquid velvet of Lucifer’s voice trickles down each of Alastor’s ribs, and drips into his gut, where it pools, hot and languid.
Alastor fights to bite back a gasp.
Lucifer’s eyes dart to the top of his head, where his ears no doubt betray him.
Oh fucking no.
Something red gleams in Lucifer’s eyes then, and his teeth flash where his grin puts them on full, dangerous, display.
“Uh huh,” he mocks. “No problem. Nothing at all, then. Well – I’ll see you around, Alastor.”
Alastor is fucked.