Chapter Text
It isn’t the first time Lucifer has lost track of her.
It is, however, the first time that she has unequivocally disregarded his summons.
Lucifer doesn’t have to tap into his unending well of omniscience to know where she’s gone, but he still searches his room for her all the same in hope that he's wrong. He won't officially concede defeat until he's checked under every nook and cranny and rubber duck pile.
When Lucifer lived by himself, he'd allowed Eden — yeah, he named his snake Eden, don't let it be said he doesn't appreciate a healthy dose of irony — free reign of the palace, placated by the knowledge that her range of chaos was limited.
The same could not be said for a hotel full of sinners.
He'd tried to keep her preoccupied with new toys and treats, encouraging her to stay confined to his person or his room, but she'd been particularly rebellious as of late.
If that weren’t bad enough, she’d evidently set her sights on The Radio Demon of all sinners.
Lucifer thinks the decades of isolation did quite a number on her. That’s the only way he can explain her incomprehensible affinity towards Alastor given that Lucifer himself doesn’t want to be within a hundred feet of him.
If it were anyone else, perhaps he’d be compelled to figure out why this extension of himself was so insistent on remaining close to the radio host.
But for goodness' sake, it's Alastor.
For all Lucifer knows, Alastor is carrying around the snake equivalent of catnip in his pocket just to piss him off, and that’s all there is to it.
Whatever the reason, Eden has made it clear that she has her own agenda, and she is nothing if not a persistent little lady.
Theoretically, Lucifer could solve the issue entirely by placing her in a permanent slumber for the remainder of his stay at the hotel. However, he still doesn't have a frame of reference for how long his presence is necessary (or welcomed, for that matter), and it doesn't sit right with him to take her out of commission indefinitely.
Grasping for an alternative, he'd stationed wards around his suite. They'd proven a rather effective deterrent thus far, thwarting several of her attempts to wander the halls unchaperoned.
That is, up until last night.
It'd been his fault, really. He’d let himself get distracted by a new design — a really cool one, in his defense!
Consumed by his mania, he’d forgotten to tuck her into stasis and power on the wards before he’d passed out.
He'd woken up this morning, head propped up by the makeshift pillow of his folded arms, a sticky note stuck to his cheek, and a line of drool smudging the sketch beneath him.
A quick shower and change of clothes later, he'd rounded out his morning routine with a pair of fingerguns aimed at his reflection and an obligatory, "Why are you like this?”
It wasn’t until he’d gotten to the door and reached for his top hat that he noticed —
his crown,
his apple (because he was committed to the theme, damnit),
and the conspicuous absence of his snake.
The groan that'd followed was one dredged up from the depths of his soul.
Some thirty minutes later, with his futile room search finally complete, all that Lucifer is left with is the dreaded anticipation of what he presumes will be an extremely unpleasant interaction.
Fuckity fuck fuck.
If only he could opt for the sweet release of death over having to endure another day in the presence of The Radio Demon.
The unbearable smugness, the targeted taunts about his height, lack of parenting accolades, and laughable conversational skills, ugh.
Lucifer is getting so very close to throwing hands these days.
He'd held back thus far, entirely for Charlie’s sake, but oh, how satisfying would it be to punch Alastor right in his stupid, smiling mouth. Like powdered sugar on his lips after a juice cleanse, he imagines.
Perhaps, co-existing with Alastor was simply another punishment in his long line of sanctions for the whole free-will fiasco.
It would certainly explain why Alastor's existence seemed to exclusively revolve around being insufferable — toward Lucifer, specifically.
Resigned, he sets his hat on his head and summons a portal into the parlor. He's resolved to play it cool, aware of how Alastor feeds off his more explosive reactions.
He knows this and, yet, when he finds a snoozing Eden curled around Alastor’s antlers, the long line of her body acting like a hammock between them, the first words that leave his mouth are, “You motherfucker.”
His ‘Oh Deer!’ mug in hand, Alastor looks to him with his signature smile. A perfectly wrapped box sits on the coffee table beside him, its extravagant red bow drawing Lucifer’s attention to it —
But wait, he’ll get to that later. He needs to deal with this daughter-stealing, snake-absconding, pretentious asshole first.
“Oh, your Majesty, a pleasure to see you as always,” Alastor greets him with superficial cheer, a jovial buzz in the air. “Lovely morning, is it not? Why, I heard we might even get some acid rain today!”
“Save it,” Lucifer snaps. “You have something that belongs to me.”
“Is that so?”
Lucifer’s eyes flicker up pointedly. Eden's awake now, vertical pupils watching him, but she remains perched in the little nest of Alastor’s hair.
“Oh!” Alastor gestures upwards with a flourish. “You are referring to mon serpent?”
Oh, fuck this guy. “That's not her — “
“I assure you, she is here of her own free will. In fact, here I was, enjoying a spot of tea after another successful broadcast. It was longer than usual, at the behest of our dear Charlotte — “
“Not our. Charlie is my daughter — “
“She wanted a special segment, you see, informing the denizens of Hell about the new amenities,” Alastor continues, undeterred, “and I was gracious enough to oblige by her asinine request! I spoke at length about our soundproofed quiet room, perfect for screaming into the void. I also discussed our newly reinforced balconies. They are much sturdier now and function quite well as a jumping pad.”
“I find it really hard to believe that Charlie asked you to phrase it like that.”
“I had to take some creative liberties to really draw them in,” Alastor says with a dismissive wave. “Ah, but I digress. As I settled in for a morning filled with the pleasant smell of sulfur and carnage, a little hiss caught my attention. Mon serpent was positively delighted when I asked her to join me.” Then, he adds, a figurative twist of the knife, “And as you can see, she is quite happy where she is.”
“Listen, you tacky piece of shit,” Lucifer retorts, closing the distance between them until he is looming properly, “I know you think you're so fucking clever, but I see right through you. So, cut the shit and give me back my goddamn snake.”
Alastor raises an elegant brow in perpetual amusement. “Does it look like I'm stopping her?”
Lucifer’s eye twitches.
He turns his attention to his reptile.
“Eden,” he says sternly in his best Dad voice. It could arguably use some work. “It's time to go.”
Eden acknowledges him with a lazy flick of her tongue.
“I’m serious.”
He tugs at his connection with her, but she's fighting it, embarrassing him like an unruly toddler who has decided a public setting is the best place to question his authority.
And Alastor, he's practically glowing, relishing in the blatant dismissal from his most beloved pet.
It's made all the worse when Alastor leans forward and whispers encouragingly, “You’re doing a great job, your Majesty. Uncontested for parent of the year, if I do say so myself.”
“You, shut the fuck up. And you — “ he points to Eden then to his hat, “get back here!”
Eden doesn’t appreciate his tone, that much is clear, but she does unfurl herself from Alastor’s antlers to slink down the side of his head. Hovering over his shoulder, she whines at Lucifer in the form of a displeased hiss.
Just as he's about to compel her to listen (which he hates to do, he really loathes forcing anyone to do anything, it's kind of his thing), Alastor tsks his tongue at her. “There, there, mon serpent. Best listen to his Majesty before he throws a proper fit,” he soothes her. “But never fear. We will have tea again another time. I will summon you a fine mouse during your next visit; how does that sound?”
Ever so pleased, Eden flicks her tongue over Alastor's jaw, leaving Lucifer to wrangle with the heat flooding his face.
It's peculiar — Alastor is usually so fickle about physical contact, but he doesn’t seem to mind Eden's touch. He offers her a gentle pat on the head in return for her affectionate display.
Satisfied, she abandons her post, curling around the frame of the chair and easing herself down onto the floor. Lucifer isn’t sure how she’s able to relay such extensive pouting in her slither, but she does so with flair.
He crouches down to meet her halfway, extending his hat toward her. She dutifully winds herself along its base, settling into her rightful place.
“Such a darling,” Alastor croons with a fondness Lucifer is nearly certain he’s incapable of. “Hard to fathom she is connected to you at all.”
Alastor has no idea what the connection between them actually entails, and that’s fine with Lucifer. Knowing the full scope of Eden’s relation to him would set a dangerous precedent where Alastor’s ego is concerned.
“Yeah, well, fuck you, too,” Lucifer says, setting his hat back on his head. He summons his cane and points to the wrapped box on the table with it. “What the hell is this, anyway? A bomb?”
“Ha! No, nothing quite as… explosive,” Alastor says. He taps the edge of the box with a claw. “This is your gift.”
“Uh.” Lucifer falters. “My wha — why?”
“For your daughter’s bonding activity this afternoon.” Alastor’s grin is so sharp, it could slice muscle clean from bone. “Don’t you remember?”
Lucifer categorically does not remember a bonding activity slated for this afternoon, especially not one that entails Alastor giving him a gift. He’d think he’d recall something that monumental.
Then again, he does have a tendency to drift off during conversation. He is often left floundering as a result, trying to glean bits of information from context so that he doesn’t have to admit to his deficiencies out loud.
“Of course I do!” Lucifer says defensively. “I just — I’ve been so busy with... important things. It just slipped my mind for a moment.” Then, after a few painful seconds, he asks, “So… is everyone exchanging gifts or…?”
Even seated, Alastor somehow manages to look down at him through half-lidded eyes, his smile never faltering. His desire to watch Lucifer squirm is quite transparent.
“Right.” Lucifer will have to make deductions on his own, maybe chat up the barkeep later. For now, he'll assume that an exchange involving gifts is a double-sided activity. “Well. I hope you’re ready for your gift because I’m going to blow it out of the water,” he asserts with unearned confidence.
If possible, Alastor’s smile stretches even further. He stands, straightening out his jacket. “I look forward to your failed attempts at winning our daughter’s favor in real-time.”
“My daughter.”
Shadows unfurl from beneath Alastor’s feet, climbing up his limbs like dark vines, swallowing him piece by piece. He waves those slender talons at him before he's engulfed completely. “Toodles, chum!"
And just like that, the music that follows Alastor like a foxtrotting wraith is gone, leaving the parlor unusually quiet.
Lucifer stews for a long moment, wrestling with his impulse to jam the entire city’s radio signals. Now, wouldn't that send Alastor into a delightful tizzy? Maybe make him think twice about luring Eden back to him with promises of mice and cozy antlers.
The red bow at the edge of his vision draws his attention once more. He realizes only then that Alastor has left his gift behind.
Given that one of his many monikers is temptation incarnate, Lucifer thinks it's ironic how little restraint he has when he's the one being tempted.
After all, it would be laughably easy, child's play really, for him to take a peek inside.
On one hand, it's considered improper etiquette to do so.
On the other hand, Alastor is a colossal asshole.
Hmm, decisions, decisions…
Lucifer squints, glancing side-to-side to ensure the coast is clear. No signs of life, not a stir of shadows.
He sets his sights back on the gift, snaps his fingers for necessary flair, and poof — the box and its wrappings blink out of existence.
Revealing a rubber duck wearing a dunce hat perched on the tiniest step stool known to man.
How. Fucking. Dare.
Lucifer isn't so far removed that he's unaware others find his hobby peculiar and ‘silly.' But it's not like it's hurting anybody!
It's certainly worlds more tame than the sadistic hobbies sinners indulge in.
Plus, ducks are awesome.
They were one of his first creations. On that basis alone, Lucifer is incredibly protective of them.
It shouldn’t surprise him that Alastor would take some harmless hobby of his, something that brought him a sliver of joy in this inescapable hellscape, and poke fun at him for it.
Lucifer is, quite suddenly, feeling extremely petty.
If Alastor wasn’t going to take this bonding exercise seriously, Lucifer wouldn’t be caught out, made to be the fool with a thoughtful gift only to be mocked in return. His pride wouldn’t allow it. It was his Sin for a reason.
With a wave, he returns Alastor’s gift to its previous state then heads to his suite to concoct a gift of equal offense.
Knowing how Alastor felt about newer media, it wasn't hard to come up with something Lucifer knew he'd hate.
Granted, Lucifer himself loved vintage things, the classics and vinyls and old school radios, but also fuck Alastor in particular, he refused to bond over it with him.
With only a thought, Lucifer secures Alastor's gift — the newest iPod complete with a carefully curated playlist consisting almost exclusively of Nickelback — with circus-themed wrapping paper.
If Alastor wanted to take a beloved hobby of his and make a mockery of it, Lucifer was more than willing to return the favor.
By the time everyone gathers in the parlor, Lucifer is feeling quite giddy in his anticipation of Alastor’s reaction — a screech of feedback or an appearance of his radio dial eyes would be positively delicious.
Once the usual suspects, plus a grifter or two, are present and accounted for, Charlie claps her hands together.
“I am so, so, SO excited to see everyone's gifts!" She gives her girlfriend a little elbow nudge and whispers quite loudly, "I told you they'd all do it, Vaggie!”
Vaggie sighs and smiles that indulgent smile, reserved specifically for his daughter. “As always, you were right, babe. Though, Husk, would it have killed you to wrap your gift?"
Said gift, a bottle of brandy clearly taken from the bar and possibly already missing a few fingers' worth of liquor, sits in front of him.
Husk huffs, “You're tellin' me that Angel’s obviously wrapped dildo is any better?”
“Hey!” Angel slaps two hands on the table. “It's supposed to be a surprise!”
It’s not, and it's entirely due to how precisely Angel has wrapped every rounded edge of said dildo. It makes for quite the transparent and obscene gift. The pink, shimmery bow affixed to the very tip sure doesn't help any.
“Why would you gift anyone a dildo?” Vaggie mutters.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Angel counters. “I’ll have you know, I got this baby off the black market, straight from Lust. It’s top-of-the-line! You should check out the settings on this bad boy.”
“Anyways!” Charlie interrupts before the conversation can derail further. “Who’d like to go first?”
Lucifer rolls his eyes when Alastor raises his hand, oh-so-eager to humiliate him. Jackass.
No matter. It actually works in his favor for Alastor to go first. Now, no one can fault him for his petty gift; it'll be fair game.
“It took me some time to think of a gift that I thought best suited you, your Majesty, with all your many interests and talents,” Alastor begins. He pushes the familiar box toward him then steps back again to settle both hands, one over the other, atop his cane. “I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I do hope you find this gift to your satisfaction.”
The patronizing tone filtered through radio static sets Lucifer on edge. His teeth feel too sharp in his mouth standing opposite Alastor, who looks down at him with gleaming sanguine eyes. Always mocking, always condescending, always winning at a game that he's cherry-picked the rules to.
Heat swells in Lucifer's throat, and when he breathes, smoke dances across his tongue.
“Hm,” he manages. “We'll see.”
He’s not willing to give Alastor the satisfaction of a slow reveal. He waves his hand above the box instead, eyes already narrowed into a glare, mouth parting, a sharp retort on his lips —
— only to falter when he doesn't find that little rubber duck staring up at him.
Instead, a swan sits before him, sculpted of sparkling crystal. The lights of the lobby reflect off the spread of its wings (six of them, divided among two rows, mirroring Lucifer’s own), as it looks to take flight, casting an iridescent glimmer across the nearby wallpaper. A craftsman himself, Lucifer can see the minuscule divots and imperfections.
This was not a piece of art willed into existence by magic but instead done by hand.
He reaches out, reverent, fingers hovering over the edges. He traces it with his eyes.
It's gorgeous.
And Lucifer is… he's speechless.
“I had to pull a few strings to get this commissioned on such short notice, but I know how fond you are of feathered creatures,” Alastor speaks as Lucifer continues to survey the work of art. "Is it to your liking?”
Lucifer swallows thickly, clearing his throat to allow for words that never come.
He can’t remember the last time he was given such a gift.
Tokens of worship or sacrifices for summons, sure, but not… not something like this.
Now more than ever, he is grateful for his daughter’s innate ability to express all that he cannot.
“Alastor!” she says. “Wow, this is stunning!”
Alastor brushes her off with a smile. “Yes, well, I know how important it is to you that your father figures get along.”
Charlie’s eyes go wide at that, instantly welling with tears. The appreciation and approval in her expression, directed solely towards Alastor, is what finally kickstarts Lucifer’s brain. He tears his hand away from the swan figurine.
“Wait a minute, this isn’t what was in — “
“Dad!” Charlie interrupts excitedly. “Why don’t you give Alastor his gift next?”
Charlie turns those beautiful eyes, endlessly hopeful like the cosmos, towards him — and Lucifer panics.
He tries to think of something on the fly to swap out his gift for, but he can't, not when the spotlight is on him like this (proven as much when toaster and can opener are the first gift alternatives his brain unhelpfully supplies).
There’s simply no time to come up with something as thoughtful and aesthetically pleasing as Alastor’s gift, and now he's going to look terrible in front of —
Oh.
“You motherfucker. “
Alastor places a hand to his chest, aghast. “Is that how you say thank you, your Majesty?” he says with mock offense, but his eyes are aglow with satisfaction as he savors every bit of Lucifer's humiliation and anger.
Not even Charlie’s shriek is able to slow Lucifer down when he lunges, tackling Alastor to the ground.
His eyes burn with the intensity of their inversion, and it's hard to hear anything other than the crack of bone as his fist connects with Alastor's jaw.
Oh, and Alastor just laughs and laughs, his bones popping as his body distorts and elongates beneath him. Tendrils lash out at Lucifer’s face, temporarily blinding him, compelling Lucifer to open all of his eyes to lock onto his malformed target.
If it’s the last thing he does, Lucifer is going to end this unrepentant piece of —
“Dad, stop!”
There are hands on both of them then, tearing them apart, and it's only for the love of his daughter and perhaps by the grace of the God that disavowed him that Lucifer allows himself to be pulled off.
Fifteen minutes later, Lucifer finds himself sharing one of the small round tables in the parlor with the little punk-ass bitch he'd just tried to murder, holding an icepack to one of his black eyes.
It’s entirely unnecessary given that his injuries will heal themselves in no time, but it calms Charlie down some to play nurse, and he owes her that much after turning her bonding activity into a brawl.
Not that it's his fault.
Not entirely.
He looks at Alastor with his uncovered eye as they sit silently on their respective timeouts.
The Radio Demon's smile is intact, though lopsided courtesy of his dislocated jaw. Niffty is at his shoulders, wrapping an absurd amount of gauze around his head to keep his jawbone from hanging.
Despite his injuries, Lucifer feels a thousand times better now. As it turns out, punching Alastor in the face has done wonders for the tension in his body. He feels less on edge; still annoyed but lacking the fiery rage from before.
Alastor seems calmer, too, the stiff line of his spine more relaxed as he drums his claws on the table to the beat of a jazzy tune.
Charlie stands across the room from them, speaking in hushed tones with Vaggie. Guilt laces through him at her distressed gesticulating. Provoked or not, he is aware that he pretty much ruined the whole activity she had planned.
He's grateful that Vaggie had immediately believed him when he accused Alastor of instigating the attack.
It would seem that not everyone is so easily charmed by The Radio Demon.
“I should throttle you,” Lucifer says quietly, without any real heat. “You completely set me up.”
“I haven’t the faintest clue what you mean.”
Lucifer huffs, settling back in his chair. “Charlie won’t be able to save you forever.”
“Ha! Surely you jest,” Alastor says through layers of static, voice garbled due to his injury. “I do not need saving.”
“Certainly needed saving from Adam.”
The overhead lights flicker, and the temperature in the room drops several degrees worth.
The atmospheric change earns them a few concerned looks.
Lucifer smiles reassuringly at Charlie from afar, reaffirming their ceasefire with a raise of his hands, even though he's quite proud of the direct hit to Alastor's pride.
Trusting that another fight isn't about to break out, Charlie turns back to Vaggie and resumes their conversation.
In the minutes that pass, Lucifer's attention drifts elsewhere — specifically over to the pair at the bar.
Angel Dust is leaning forward, talking animatedly to Husk, cracking inappropriate jokes if Lucifer had to guess. Even from here, he can see the fondness in Angel's gaze. He finds it hard to believe that Husk doesn’t see it, too.
“Husk is far too self-deprecating in nature to attempt to court our effeminate spider resident,” Alastor says as if reading his thoughts.
Lucifer lowers the ice pack from his face, eye already significantly less swollen, to fix Alastor with a reproachful stare.
“What would you know about courting someone?”
“Quite a lot, actually,” Alastor replies as he begins to undo the gauze, having sufficiently humored Niffty. Discarding it on the table, he lifts his hand to cradle his jaw. A sickening crack reverberates between them when Alastor snaps the bone back into its socket with startling ease. Voice clearer now, he continues, “A lack of interest does not equate to a lack of knowledge.”
“Hm.” Lucifer considers this. His gaze returns to the duo across the way. “Fair enough.”
It's weird, having an actual conversation with Alastor, but he supposes they're both more amenable now that they've let off some steam.
More to himself, he says, “It’s kinda cute, them dancing around each other.”
“It’s soppy nonsense is what it is,” Alastor retorts with distaste before amending, “but entertaining, nonetheless. Not that Valentino would allow Angel Dust to properly date anyone.”
“Valentino? That grotesque moth sinner?”
“One and the same,” Alastor hums. “He’s part of the collective known as the Vees, a group of Overlords managed by an esoteric joke of a man named Vox.”
“Vox,” Lucifer repeats, wading through his vast memory space. “Oh yeah, the guy that looks like he goes to parks to punch birds? Has a television for a head?"
The undignified snort from Alastor is entirely unexpected, taking Lucifer by surprise.
"An apt description, your Majesty.” Scarlet eyes glitter with mirth. “Not a fan of his, I take it?”
Lucifer lifts a single shoulder. “I don't know him personally, but any man who makes TV his entire identity is a joke in my book. Everything on television these days is hot garbage. Scrambles the brain, if you ask me.”
Alastor lights up in gleeful agreement. “Indeed." He pauses. "And what of the woman? Velvette?"
“The one with her phone glued to her face?" At Alastor's nod, he says, "I tell you what, you humans are responsible for a lot of shitty things, but smartphones are the absolute worst. What in the Hell was wrong with landlines?"
Alastor turns to him fully now, his perfectly aligned smile on display.
With a twirl of his wrist, he summons a kettle and two mugs — his, and one clearly intended for Lucifer, emblazoned with the words “Duck Off.”
Lucifer snorts to mask his delight.
"May I interest you in some tea?" Alastor offers.
Lucifer knows a temporary truce when he sees one.
And as opposed to the earlier gift exchange, this one actually seems quite genuine. He doubts it’ll extend into tomorrow, but he can feel Charlie’s eyes on him, and he has some serious dad points to make up for.
“Sure.”
Alastor serves them both a gracious pour. When Lucifer gathers the mug into his hands, the warmth of the drink permeates into his palms. He brings the rim to his lips and breathes in deeply, chasing the delicate herbal notes.
Any lingering tension seeps out of his shoulders with his next exhale.
"Now, if you please." Alastor leans forward onto his elbows and folds his hands neatly under his chin. He is the perfect image of an attentive audience. "I wish to hear more of your distaste for both the Vees and modern technology.”