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Warmth.
The sound of quiet, even breaths.
Soft, silky sheets against his skin.
Lucifer lets little drops of wakefulness trickle in one by one. It’s comfortable here, in this limbo between sleep and consciousness. He allows himself to shift, ever so slightly, to snuggle down into the pleasant scent of sweet tobacco and lavender that surrounds him. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of his quiet mind, he is aware that this scent is not a familiar one. The thought flutters past and disappears, inconsequential.
There is a warm presence nearby. It calls to him, draws Lucifer in like a lighthouse. He rolls over, seeking out its heat, and is met with a firm chest under his cheek. The flesh against him hums with life, a gentle lullaby singing just beneath the skin. A steady heartbeat thuds rhythmically, hypnotizingly against his ear.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
There it is again. Wakefulness. Reality. Worming its way into the corners of his mind and ringing the golden bells of morning. Lucifer sighs, tries to escape the inevitability of his broken peace by curling closer against the presence. It’s so inviting, beckoning him to sink back into the depths of sleep. He hasn’t had the pleasure of another person in his bed in a very long time, let alone the experience of waking up with them.
Who is it again?
Who…
Oh.
Lucifer is touched once again by the ache of memory. It slips unbidden into his mind like a thief in the night, stealing away the sweet absence of thought. Dim light, a bedroom that isn’t his, soft crimson hair tangled in his fingers, the push and pull of bodies, sweat and tears and blood and sensation.
Lucifer cracks open an eye to confirm.
Alastor, evidently, is an entirely different being when he sleeps. Lucifer raises his head, his hand laying still on Alastor’s chest, and allows himself to take it all in.
Gone is the harshness, the razor sharp wit, the deep etch of tightly-reined emotion between his brows. It leaves behind something raw, untouched, and devastatingly beautiful. His eyes are still closed, long lashes shadowing his cheeks. His smile is nowhere to be found, lips parted around gentle breaths. From this close, Lucifer can spot a spattering of pale freckles on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose, near white in contrast with Alastor’s rich, deep grey skin. He wonders idly if he could get away with counting them.
A buzz filters into the air around them, barely noticeable at first but growing steadily louder. The radio in the corner comes alive, switching between stations like it has yet to decide what will come of the day. Alastor blinks, the radio settles.
A slow, sweet piano number reaches Lucifer’s ears. It lasts only a moment before it ticks onto something jazzier, something decidedly less emotional.
Suddenly, there’s a hand in his face pushing Lucifer to the other side of the bed. He yelps indignantly. When he recovers, Alastor’s smile has found its way back onto his face.
“Good morning to you too, asshole.”
Alastor stretches, joints popping and the long, graceful lines of his body arching. He eyes Lucifer then, something unreadable flitting across his face.
“Good morning, sire,” he says.
His radio filter has yet to come back on, leaving only a whiskey-smooth voice and the barest hint of an accent he can’t place.
Lucifer watches raptly as the Radio Demon, still shaking off the loving caress of sleep, slips gracefully from underneath warm red sheets and off of his bed.
Silence drifts listlessly between them as Alastor, apparently unabashed in his nakedness, sets about lighting several candles throughout the room. By hand, Lucifer notes, not with magic. The smell of lavender creeps into the air.
“Didn’t take you for a scented candles guy,” Lucifer says as Alastor walks over to a tall, dark wardrobe, eyes locked on the sway of narrow hips.
Alastor hums, “there are many things you do not know about me, your majesty.”
Briefly, Lucifer thinks he might like to learn.
Alastor rifles through his shirts and chooses one, a silky black button-up. The garment finds itself soaring through the air and landing squarely in Lucifer’s face, who looks up at Alastor with a mixture of annoyance and confusion painting his features.
“If you intend to remain here, sire, I ask that you at least put something on,” Alastor says, and without bothering to hear a response, tosses a pair of loose black briefs in Lucifer’s general direction.
Lucifer wants to argue, he really does.
Why would I want to stay? He could ask.
You’re naked too, he could say.
I have my own clothes, thank you very much, he could snap.
He stays silent.
The shirt is entirely too large. He has to roll up the sleeves to reveal his hands and it probably doesn’t matter if he fastens it all the way, it will still hang off his shoulders and leave his collarbones uncovered, so he doesn’t bother with the top two buttons. The underwear hangs off his hips loosely.
Lucifer tries not to think about just how small he is in Alastor’s clothes.
He follows him into the bathroom.
Alastor is taking the time to sort through a shelf of bottles, choosing each one with deliberate care. Lucifer watches in silent wonder as he stands up with an armful of products and lines them up one by one on the floor next to the clawfoot tub.
“What are you doing?”
Alastor doesn’t look at him as he turns on the faucet, “bathing, sire. I trust you are familiar with the concept?”
The jab feels a lot less irksome without the radio filter.
Lucifer rolls his eyes and hops up on the counter, facing the tub as Alastor steps in and sinks into the steaming water.
He watches the sinner relax for a moment, eyes closed and chin tilted skyward.
“Can I wash your hair for you?” Lucifer asks suddenly, unsure where the idea even came from.
Alastor opens one eye and fixes a glare in Lucifer’s direction, “no.”
He sits up and takes one of the bottles, pouring a generous amount of shampoo into his palm. Lavender again, Lucifer notices. He chooses not to comment on that.
“Why not?”
The Radio Demon has begun massaging the shampoo into his scalp when he replies, “you won’t do it to my standards.”
Lucifer huffs, “I think I can figure it out.”
Alastor snorts, “‘figure it out’ he says.”
“Why are you even doing all this?”
It’s a loaded question. Beneath those words lies another, more personal question.
Why are you letting me witness this?
“I have no intention of allowing you to disrupt my routine, sire,” Alastor says, a tinge of irritation in his voice before he mutters, seemingly without any forethought, “you’ve done enough damage already.”
Lucifer ponders that for a moment. Should he feel offended? Perhaps, but he’s grown accustomed to the Radio Demon’s prickly exterior in the months since he moved into the hotel. Their relationship is volatile, yes, but Lucifer might even go so far as to call them friends. Kind of. Almost sort of maybe close to friends. Frenemies. Enecquaintances…
Then there was last night.
It is with the memory of a heated argument turned heated kisses on the tip of his tongue that Lucifer says, teasingly, “oh yeah? What kind of damage?”
His eyes dart between the bite mark on Alastor’s shoulder and the scratches down his back. Lucifer’s own bruised, bitten throat stings sympathetically.
Alastor shoots him a dark glare that is somewhat undermined by the pile of suds atop his head. Lucifer stifles a laugh behind his hand.
Silence, again. Alastor rinses and reaches for another bottle, another pile of product to massage into his hair. He cares for each strand almost tenderly as he works the conditioner in, and it is a jarring sight for Lucifer. Tenderness is not something he ever thought to associate with the Radio Demon. He certainly wasn’t tender with Lucifer, not even when they had fallen into bed together. That had been frenzied, all chomping teeth and the brutal snap of hips.
The sight before him now is foreign. It is as unfamiliar as it is exciting to watch Alastor pick up yet another bottle of product and begin scrubbing his face as he allows the conditioner to sit.
Lucifer quirks a brow, “are you… exfoliating right now?”
Alastor spares him a glance, face soapy and covered in a fine grit, “it’s Tuesday,” he says, like that answers anything at all. Okay, fine, the Radio Demon exfoliates on Tuesdays. This is fine, it doesn’t make something weird twist in Lucifer’s chest at all. It certainly isn’t endearing. It’s just odd, another item on the ever growing list of Alastor’s quirks.
When had he begun to keep a list?
Alastor has begun the task of running a washcloth saturated in soap across his skin. Every movement is slow, elegant like a dancer.
“So…” Lucifer begins, steadfastly ignoring the annoyed look Alastor points in his direction, “last night was… something…”
It is uniquely pleasurable to watch the sinner blush.
Alastor sounds strained as he replies, “that is one way to put it.”
Lucifer practically giggles, “I am literally watching you bathe right now. I have bruises you gave me on my neck. And hips. And thighs. Bite marks too. I am wearing your underwear. But the direct mention of sex is what gets you flustered? Unflappable Radio Demon indeed.”
Alastor throws the used washcloth at him. Lucifer dodges and it lands with a splat on the mirror before falling to the counter top. Lucifer laughs loud and bright.
“Did you at least enjoy yourself?” Lucifer prods.
Alastor ignores the question in favor of plunging his head fully into the water. The sounds of splashing indicate he is vigorously washing all that product from his body. Then it is silent.
He remains in the water for a long time. Long enough that Lucifer thinks to check to make sure he hasn’t drowned, but then Alastor is emerging from the water with a gasp.
He flicks his ears to shake off the water, which may be the cutest thing Lucifer has ever seen in his eternal existence. Again, he is struck by how bizarre this all is, not entirely convinced he isn’t dreaming. He had never even considered the possibility of Alastor being cute of all things. It strikes him somewhere in his lower ribs.
Alastor holds a hand out, eyes still closed as he gestures impatiently.
“What?”
Alastor huffs, “the towel, if you will. The small one please.”
Lucifer does as he is bid and settles back on the counter. He watches, mesmerized, as Alastor rises from the tub, water streaming down his body in a way that has something warm stirring in Lucifer’s belly.
Alastor takes his time drying off. Once he has cleaned his face with the smaller towel, he takes the large one and meticulously dries every inch of his skin. Lastly, he sops up the worst of the water in his hair with the towel and then snaps his fingers to dry it the rest of the way.
Lucifer gasps.
“You have curly hair,” he says dumbly.
Alastor wraps the towel around his waist and it sits tantalizingly low on his hips.
“And you will tell no one, understood?” Alastor says.
Well, that’s alright by Lucifer. Something in him wants to hold this knowledge close to his heart and never let another soul know of its existence. He wants to treasure this secret like an heirloom.
Lucifer nods, reaching out before he can stop himself, “can I feel it?”
Alastor stares at him.
Lucifer swallows, taking his hand back, “s-sorry. Dumb question.”
Alastor sighs. He steps into Lucifer’s space, close enough that he can smell all that lavender and the hint of smoke Alastor always carries with him. He takes Lucifer’s hand and guides it into those beautiful, bouncy curls.
Lucifer’s eyes are wide with wonder as he takes the opportunity he’s been given. Alastor’s hair is soft, even softer than it was last night. He delicately runs his fingers through it, holds the curls in his palm.
Without thinking, his hand finds its way to Alastor’s ear and- oh. He’s soft here too, impossibly so. He rubs the fur between his fingertips and then scratches lightly at the base of the ear.
Alastor makes a strangled sound at that. Sheepishly, Lucifer starts to pull away, but a hand around his wrist stops him. It deposits his hand soundly back where it had been and, smiling fondly, Lucifer continues his ministrations.
Several minutes go by like that, Alastor leaning ever so slightly into Lucifer’s touch. It is… excruciatingly tender, Lucifer thinks. It’s the sort of thing he might have done with Lilith once, a lifetime and a half ago. Not that he’ll tell Alastor as much, not if he wants to hold on to their tenuous moment of peace. Not if he wants a chance at doing it again.
Alastor sighs and steps away, looking damn near wistful even as he twists his smile into something carefully guarded.
He does not acknowledge the moment.
Neither does Lucifer.
Alastor turns to the mirror. He begins by brushing his teeth, first throwing away a chewed and bitten looking toothbrush and then replacing it with a fresh one from an entire drawer full of them.
Lucifer watches amusedly, he supposes razor sharp teeth meant for rending flesh would hinder oral hygiene.
Alastor sorts methodically through his collection of bottles on the sink. He hums quietly to himself, matching the melody of the jazzy tune emanating from the bedroom. Lucifer watches with odd fascination as the Radio Demon drips oil onto his fingertips and combs them through his hair, trails of green magic swirling after them as his hair magically straightens.
Lucifer is not sad to watch the curls disappear. He is not.
Who knew the Radio Demon moisturized? Lucifer certainly didn’t. Wouldn’t have believed it either until Alastor begins rubbing creams into his skin, careful to use the right creams in the right places. It’s adorable, frankly, if not a tad neurotic.
Lucifer smirks, eyebrow raised almost in disbelief when Alastor begins applying oil to his antlers.
“You shine your antlers?” Lucifer says, unable to hold back the teasing lilt in his tone.
Alastor has the sense to look a little abashed, turning a lovely shade of rouge before narrowing his eyes and flicking Lucifer in the forehead.
Lucifer’s laughter echoes from the walls and he gasps in mock offense, clutching a hand to his heart.
Alastor’s smile looks a little more genuine, if only for a moment, “one must always strive to look their best, my dear. Why, I can’t very well have them looking dull, now can I?”
Lucifer shrugs, unsure he would be able to tell the difference, but concedes the point to Alastor anyway.
With that, Alastor exits the bathroom, Lucifer trailing after him like a puppy.
Lucifer resigns himself to curling up in the leather armchair by the fireplace, waving a hand to get the embers going again.
It is truly a wonder Alastor gets anything done at all, Lucifer thinks, if this is a daily thing for him. It seems like it is, if the way he goes through the motions of choosing each article of clothing with practiced ease is anything to go by.
He lays the items out on the bed one by one. And one by one, he goes about donning each article of clothing. Underwear first. Then calf-length stirrup style socks to make way for his hooves, complete with sock garters that squeeze the flesh there just so.
That visual on its own has Lucifer pausing his languid train of thought just to admire the view. Alastor doesn’t appear to be paying him any mind, so Lucifer snatches up the opportunity to ogle. He eyes the slide of well-tailored slacks up long, lean legs, chewing on his lip.
Next comes the shirt, Alastor’s usual deep, cool red in a pressed and starched fabric. Then the chest harness. And isn’t that a sight? Shiny leather wrapped tight around Alastor’s chest. It’s sexier than it ought to be on a man who Lucifer was half certain he hated no more than 24 hours ago. Attached to either side of the harness is a sheath.
Lucifer knew about the hunting knives, of course. That doesn’t make it any less arresting to watch Alastor spin them nimbly between his slim fingers before depositing them in the sheaths.
Then the vest. The blood red one that nips in at the waist and accentuates Alastor’s narrow figure. It slides neatly over his arms and under the sheaths, keeping the knives readily accessible.
Lucifer’s mouth feels a little dry. Funny how that works, dry mouth can come on at the most random times.
A pair of customized shoes, fit for hooves. Lucifer has a similar pair. Alastor’s are a smart patent leather and pointed at the toe. He kneels to carefully lace them up.
A velvety black bowtie next, tied without bothering to check a mirror, as though Alastor has done it a thousand times. He probably has. Then gold cufflinks, simple, classy.
Finally, a familiar red coat slides over broad shoulders, is buttoned over the vest. Alastor waves a hand and summons his microphone staff.
He eyes Lucifer for a moment. Lucifer eyes him back. Alastor’s expression remains unchanged.
Instead of talking, telling Lucifer it’s time to fuck off now, Alastor sets about the room blowing out each individual candle one by one. It extends their time together, if only by a scant few minutes, for which Lucifer is strangely grateful.
At last, though, Alastor walks up to the door, waving the music away with a flourishing hand and the click of the radio turning off.
“I’m afraid it is time to take your leave, sire.”
Lucifer shrugs and stands, following the Radio Demon past the threshold. He watches Alastor lock up, stays where he is when Alastor turns around and is suddenly standing very, very close.
The two stand there silently for a moment, considering one another.
Lucifer feels a pull, slow and syrupy. He chases the impulse, cupping Alastor’s jaw in his hands. Alastor makes no move to stop him.
He pulls the Radio Demon into a kiss, so much gentler than the ones they shared last night. Less desperate and clawing. It is a sweet slide of lips, soft and time warping, like if they stay put right there then maybe the universe will cease, for once, wrapping them up in its machinations.
When they part, it is with quiet breaths in shared air.
And then it is over. The sex, the passion, the morning of shared, quiet peace. The peek into the Radio Demon’s life and mind and carefully crafted routine.
Alastor heads for the elevators to disappear downstairs. Lucifer opts for his rooms, content to collapse into his own bed and not think about soft lips and sock garters and lavender shampoo.
Curled up in his bed, surrounded by white and gold and light and warmth, Lucifer belatedly realizes he is still wearing Alastor’s clothes. Alastor, ever observant as he is and thus unlikely to have simply forgotten, hadn’t asked for them back.
The king of Hell smiles at nothing and no one at all and buries himself in the scent of a sinner, lavender touched and smoky.
Later, when Alastor has indulged in a coffee or three or five, when Lucifer is once again in his own clothing and busying himself with paperwork and hotel repairs, they will return to their incessant bickering.
If anyone notices the subtle shift in their mockery, nobody will say a word.