Chapter Text
Alastor was not an impulsive creature.
Though he had been quick to emotions in his younger years, he had learned to control the budding distasteful displays before they presented on his features. Never allowing them to stem over without proper contemplation for the outcome, lest he have to suffer their resolutions.
But he had a sweet tooth, an attribute he knew came from all the times his mother would sneak him candy beneath the dinner table or behind his fathers back. He’d scarf it down before the man could see and burn the wrappers to erase the evidence. His inclination for sweet things had stayed from his youth, into his adult life, and then to Hell with him. He found artificial sugar much too chemical for his palate, and many of the deplorable treats that Charlie had stocked the hotel full of were too synthetic to be appealing. If he was to allow himself to indulge, it would be by a sweet of his own creation, his to control.
As he dipps his finger into the gold ichor pooling on the counter before him, Alastor glances to where Charlie is standing. Tenderly wrapping a dish towel around her father's hand to stop the blood from spilling onto the floors too.
It was only a small nick from a knife, nothing serious enough to warrant the fuss Charlie was making. Lucifer had been the one foolish enough to glance away while cutting an apple, teeth grinding as he watched Alastor place a delicate hand on Charlie's shoulder. Alastor hadn’t intended for the King to cut himself, it was simply an added bonus he was so clumsy.
He brought his finger to his lips and lapped at the blood, heat washed along his tongue reminiscent of a warm cup of tea, he could feel it glide down his throat and settle into his stomach. It was sweeter then he had expected, lacking the metallic bite that regular blood possessed. As he licks the remains of it from his finger Alastor can feel the weight in his gut, one he had almost forgotten was possible, the feeling of being full, satiated. All the years since his death, he had hungered, starved, and been deprived of the illicit feeling. Venison was a delicate meat, but it was not satiating.
As though the angel's blood was not already too good to be true, a pinching and pulling sprang across his chest and his side. The open gash that was hidden beneath bandages and clothes grew tight, not painfully, but the skin felt fresher, cleaner.
Could it be?
For weeks the wound had remained, no matter what Alastor did to encourage the skin to mend together, it stayed torn apart, a crevice separating the halves of his chest threatening to spill his insides if not for the hasty stitches pulling it closed. From its center grew a rot, clawing its way along his innards, sprouting out and along his flesh, leaving behind a trail of gray skin that was paper thin and decaying as quickly as a corpse left out in the Louisiana heat. A Wisteria of poison that winded along his body through his veins, turning them black, barely contained beneath the collar of his shirt.
While Alastor had not partaken in the blood of the slain exorcists, Rosie had spoken about the rather delectable cuisine. She had not, however, mentioned their healing capabilities and this was not a fact she would overlook. Was it only because Lucifer was more than an exorcist? Or was it because he was the creator of Hell, and therefore had the power to heal those who resided within its confines? It could also be something else entirely.
“Charlie, it’s fine,” Lucifer said. Alastor snaps from his thoughts, glancing at the two others hanging about the kitchen. “Look it’s already healed”
“I know, I just-” the Princess trails off, still not letting go of her fathers hand. The overlords lip curls, but he doesn't dare speak, eyes darting down to the gold colored towel in their hands. “Let’s just clean this up”
“Nonsense” Alastor chimes, his smile tugs violently at his cheeks as he steps towards the pair. “His majesty has been hurt, he needs rest”
“It was a small cut. '' Lucifer grinds his teeth together as he squints at the taller demon.
“Don’t you worry your little head” Alastor taps the tip of his cane on the King's head. “I’d be happy to sort out your mess while you recuperate”
Lucifer swats at the cane above him, beady eyes staring at Alastor with enough malice that he might implode. Charlie glances between the two, uncertainty etched into her features. Alastor would have to lay it on thicker if he was to convince them.
“Are you sure-” He cuts her off.
“Why of course” static echoes around the room as he places his hand back onto her shoulder. Her watery eyes are looking up at him now, and he aims for a look of reassurance that feels foreign on his features. “You needn't worry about such things, it’s why you have me my dear”
Alastor hands the princess the warm cup of tea she had been brewing in exchange for the towel she held. Charlie’s features softened like melting butter on a summer afternoon as she smiles at him.
“I guess you are right”
“Of course I am, now you two run along while I sort things out in here”
He herds them towards the door and allows it to close in the bewildered face of the King, who had looked ready to interject. Alastor waited, one moment, then two, until he heard the sound of footsteps retreating from outside the wooden frame.
The lock had hardly clicked into place before he was suckling the blood from the dripping towel. It’s warmth seeping through his entire body like the embrace of his mother once did. Again the tightness occurred around the wound.
There was still a mess on the counter.
The now forgotten apple the King had been slicing had fallen off the cutting board in the commotion and it glissend with the gold blood it had rolled into. Alastor eyes it with skepticism, for such a small cut it had bled heavily. He shouldn’t complain, it meant more of the delicacy for him to savor. Perhaps the ichor would be even better paired with the juices of the forbidden fruit, and yet again Alastor was right. Like caramelized apples it danced on his tongue, filled his belly, and pulled at his wound in a pleasant way.
If the blood would help him heal through ingestion, then perhaps direct contact would be even more effective. But not here, not in the kitchen where anyone could find him. He wraps the apple in the drying towel, making sure the blood doesn’t drip off in his haste, taking an empty glass from one of the cupboards he fills it with the remaining gold on the counter.
Alastor does not leave a single drop when he finally exits the kitchen, such sweet nectar could not be wasted.
—
As usual Alastor had been right about the healing properties of the blood; now in the sanctity of his room he presses the saturated towel directly onto the wound. His coat and shirt long since discarded on the back of a chair, leaving his chest bare to the cool air. The gash drinks up the blood as greedy as Alastor had, the golden nectar soaks between the green thread, dissipating into his flesh with ease, by the time the towel is dry, it has closed. Leaving in its place the rotting gray skin, none of the discoloration had been effected, but finally the demon could remove the stitches.
The area was tight when he stood, and Alastor knew that any knock or turn might pull the skin apart, but it would have to be enough, at least for now. He had used all the blood, drank from the glass and devoured the apple; core and all. The dry towel is set ablaze in his fireplace, and after a slight hesitation Alastor tosses the glass in as well, better to leave nothing at all.
The ache was still present, only smothered, separated from his body; or rather, Alastor himself felt separated from the vessel of flesh he inhabited. A wave of distortion, of otherness, made his skin tingle with static; but it felt displaced, as if these feelings were happening a few steps to the left. The realization was jarring, the floating of his essense had become unfamiliar during his time in hell. While the feeling of artificial euphoric delight had been welcomed at times during his living days, Alastor had not partake in drugs since his descent to hell.
Doing so unwittingly was not a welcomed achievement. Another aspect of Lucifer's blood that differed from the exorcists it would seem.
But, there was nothing to be done about it now, and Alastor might as well enjoy the feeling of painless rapture while he can. With his wound healed, his mind buzzing with sweetness, and his stomach full he hummed. Resting into his armchair, curled beneath the coat thrown over his lap.
Perhaps the King was not as useless as he thought.
—
He woke in a cold sweat, heart beating, ears ringing as he jerked up in his chair, only to be greeted by the quiet.
He’d slept longer than was normal, from the early afternoon to the dead of night. There were times that Alastor didn’t rest, pacing the halls or his rooms, mind ablaze, but when he did it was never peaceful, and more often than not he’d wake to feel exhausted. As the air in his lungs became more natural, and his racing heart slowed to a steady thrum a familiar feeling washed over him.
Hunger.
A sharp reminder that the only thing he had consumed the previous day was the apple and blood, it had been filling at the time, but clearly the effects didn’t last, even if he was still feeling a tad blitzed. Alastor finds himself craving something sweet, perhaps apple pie? But the thought makes him shudder, so he decides that peach cobbler is a close second.
There is no need for formalities at this time, and so he leaves his coat hanging on the back of his chair and wanders to the kitchen in nothing but black slacks and a red button down, rolled to his elbows. Heaven forbid he dirty his cuffs whipping the batter.
A few glasses of rye and the sound of soothing jazz was all it took, and Alastor lost himself in preparing his dessert. The kitchen is his domain, much like the shadows, it pulls him into a tranquil state. Apparently too tranquil as he doesn’t hear the other person approach until the door to the kitchen lets out a high pitched squeak.
“You have a tail” it wasn’t a question, and though he tried not to, Alastors ears pin back against his head as the grating voice of Lucifer fills the room. Of course it would be him.
“Astute observation, your majesty” and if Alastor slams the pot he is cleaning a little too hard against the counter, the other man doesn’t comment.
Silence fills the kitchen, aside from the gentle melody’s of jazz that flow from Alastors cane, resting against the counter beside him. Would it be naive of him to think that if he simply ignored the King he would leave? Most definitely, but he could certainly try.
“It suits you” Lucifer has yet to fully enter the kitchen, lingering in the threshold of the door like there was a salt line in place.
This time, Alastor only flicks his ears in response to the un-promoted commentary about his appearance. The music glitches, but doesn't falter long, switching to a new station to play the more ceremonious voice of Ella Fitzgerald. He could argue, or throw back his own insult, but he was tired, and the thought of bickering only worsened the feeling. Could a demon not get a moment's peace in this God forsaken hotel.
“Is there a reason you feel the need to debase me at this hour, sire” Alastor places the bowl he had just finished washing back within its home, in the cupboard above the stove. He refused to look at Lucifer and grant him the gratification of knowing just how annoyed he is.
“I’m hungry. Never did get to eat my lunch” And yet he still lingers in the doorway. “Whatcha making, smells good. But I doubt it's edible.”
Alastor falters with the knife he is drying, nearly dropping it to the floor. Lucifer had been a nuisance since the moment he walked into the hotel, and Alastor felt someone was grating his skin each time he was forced to interact with him. There were few people that Alastor liked, and fewer people that he could grant the effort to hate, Lucifer was neither. More so like a fly that buzzed around his head, annoying and soon to be squashed if it didn’t leave him alone. Unfortunately Alastor always seems to attract a lot of flies.
In fact, he has every intention of telling the King that to his face, but when he turns he pauses. Lucifer is dressed in sweats and a loose shirt, clearly having recently crawled from bed, but his face is blotchy, and eyes rimmed red. The demon can still see a tear track that the King had missed when he’d wiped the others away. A thousand insults sprung into his mind, ways to poke at the wound the other so clearly wore on his features, but he hesitated.
Lucifer looked small, weak, and vulnerable.
Alastor had felt small, weak, and vulnerable.
Shamefully dragging himself into his mother’s kitchen, split lip and black eye prominent on his face. His hands had been scraped against the gravel road when he’d fallen, and the blood had dripped onto his pants. His only good pair. He knew his father would be mad, those were church pants, and Alastor had ruined them.
But his mother had dropped the knife she was using to slice potatoes and rushed to her son, cupping his face and examining the remnants of abuse that lingered. How many times had Alastor walked through her door, bleeding and limping, having run from the neighborhood kids that threw rocks at him and called him blasphemous names? How many times had she wiped the blood from his hands and offered him baked sweats in exchange for a smile? He’d lost count.
“No tears in the kitchen Alastor, unless ya’ choppin’ onions”. She dabbed at his cheeks with tenderness even though her palms were rough from hard labor.
“Peach cobbler”
Lucifer raises an eyebrow, Alastor turns away, and the stove beeps, alerting them both that the dish is finished. He pulls the pan onto the counter, letting it sit for a moment as he heaves a sigh. It must be the rye, had he drank more than he remembered. Or perhaps he was still running off the slight high the blood had given him earlier because he can’t place what prompts his next question.
“With or without ice cream”
“What”? Lucifer balks at him.
“Would you like your slice, with or without ice cream”
This time when he looks at Lucifer, Alastor holds his gaze, and he can see the thought process racing around the King's mind as clear as a reflection in stilled water. Finally it lands on weary caution.
“With”
He only grants him a small hum in response, slicing into the desert to dish out two servings. Steam wafts around the opening and the sweet smell of honey and sugar fills the air.
“Do you intend to stare at my rear end all night? Or take action” Alastor scoffs, he can feel the King's eyes on him still.
“Huh”?
“You have two arms, two legs, and six wings if I recall correctly.” The demon hums, placing a fork on each plate. Lucifer's only response is another grunt of confusion. “The ice cream, get the ice cream”
“Oh! Right, yeah! That… that makes more sense” He shuffles to the freezer, but his gaze still lingers, burning into the back of Alastor.
His glass is growing empty, the amber liquid reminiscent of something Alastor is refusing to think about, even though the source is only a few feet away. He tops it off, leaving the empty bottle resting on the counter as he places both plates on the island.
Lucifer had already climbed onto a stool, peeling the lid off a freezer burnt container. Alastor smacks at the top with his cane, and the King jumps in shock, hands pulled back to his sides.
“Not that kind” Static buzzes around the two men as they glare at one another. After a beat, Lucifer speaks, whining like the perpetual child he was.
“I like chocolate”
“You don’t pair chocolate ice cream with peach cobbler” Lucifer pushes the cane off the lid and rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t deter Alastor. “Vanilla is best, or butterscotch if you are so inclined”
“Does it actually matter?” The King had the audacity to place his hands on his hips.
Alastor doesn’t dain his absurd question with a response other than raising an eyebrow at the short man. The tear stains from earlier are gone, and the pasty color returned to his face, minus the two rather prominent red dots spotting his cheeks. With a heavy sigh the King turns and begins to hunt for a different container of ice cream.
“You would be a total dick about something this stupid”. But from the freezer he pulls a small tub of butterscotch ice cream. It begins to melt the moment the frozen dessert lands on the plate, mixing into the syrupy juices inside the cobbler.
As the demon scoops a dollop of ice cream onto his own steaming slice of peach cobbler his eyes drift to the angel in front of him. The King is nearly sprawled across the island, resting his elbow along the stone, bent at the waist as he brings his mouth to the food, rather than the food to his mouth. How distasteful.
Alastors hand clenches around his fork before he can fully stop it. His first week at the hotel, he had chastised Charlie for her lack of proper table etiquette, she leaned into her meal, fiddled with her food, and never seemed to know which cutlery to use or when. How does someone growing up in a palace have so little decorum? He’d grown up in a hunting shack on the edge of town, nestled into the crevice of a bayou that flooded their home every spring and he had more manners then the two combined. His father had made certain that Alastor never rested his elbows on the table.
“Oh fuck that’s good”
“Elbows” Alastor can’t help but bark out. The angel looks over at him in confusion, another bite of the sweet dessert halfway to his mouth.
“What?” and the King has the gall to look confused.
“Take your elbows off the table” he repeats, composure cracking for a moment as static bounces around his head. From his cane, Ella Fitzgerald stumbles over her words, and is cut off by another singer, one that Alastor can't place at the moment.
“It’s an island, not a table” and Lucifer takes the bite off his fork, chewing slowly, a cheeky grin springing onto his lips. He indicates towards Alastor’s untouched plate, the ice cream practically turned to milk at this point. “You gonna eat that”
“It appears I have lost my appetite”
“Your loss, this is delicious'' the King reaches across the island, practically throwing himself on top of it to grab Alastors plate. Then he devours it just like he had his own piece, guiltlessly and unashamed, but he pauses on the last bite, eyes darting at the man across from him, as if he was just now remembering that Alastor is present. “Sorry… didn’t mean to be rude”
“Your table etiquette leaves me to believe otherwise” Alastor picks up his glass, only to realize it is empty again, he can feel his eyes and ears twitch in irritation. The hunger that had woken him from his dreadful sleep was still there, and yet he had no appetite to eat as the newly sealed chest wound pulsed with each beat of his heart.
“This a drinking to forget kinda night”? Lucifer had taken his upper body off the table, resting back into the stool he was previously placed on. His beady eyes watching the radio demons every move, almost as if in anticipation of something. Alastor digs his nails into the flesh of his thigh when another pulse shoots across his chest, and his ears flicker without his consent.
Alastor is tired, his chest aches, his stomach clenches on nothing, and his mind is buzzed with the bottle of liquor he had drank. Lucifer stares at him, with unrelenting inquisitive curiosity, and the demon couldn’t bring himself to snap back. He could poke at the angel's earlier breakdown, throw out a comment about his height or his daughter, but he is so tired.
“Must you insist on bumping gums tonight”? One of the lights overhead flicked, and Alastor glances at it in shock. Had he done that? He didn’t think so, but he was pretty buzzed.
“Bumping gums”? Lucifer's eyes dart between the demon across from him and the plate in front of him. Perhaps it was the lighting, but his cheeks looked redder than normal “As in…”
“I find your insistent need to chatter unappealing at most times”
“Oh” Lucifer stirres the soupy ice cream around on his plate. “Sorry, I was just trying to… you seem a little off. Is it the wound? Did it not heal?”
Suddenly Ella Fitzgerald bursts back out of the cane, and makes both men jump. Sparks fly off the small crack along the spine, before the music volume drops to a normal level. Alastors ears pin down on his head as if they had been hammered into his skull.
“Beg your P̵̩̰͓̦̺͒̀ã̸̙̻̺͂̕̚ͅr̴̤̜͛͂͑d̴͚̉̽̕ó̵͉̩͋ņ̶̛̰̱̰̅̓̋̊”?
The kitchen lights flicker rapidly, and this time Alastor knows it is from the warning rolling off him in waves of static and darkness. The bulb above the island gives out with a pop, and glass shreds rain down on the two men. They bounce off the King like water would a duck. To Lucifer’s credit he looks bashful, a redness spreading across his face. Interesting considering he bled gold.
“I smell blood”
The answer only makes Alastor more irritated, hunger long forgotten and replaced with a burning in the pit of his stomach, like hellfire. His smile pulled tight across his features, teeth on full display, a snarling animal eager to devour the meal in front of it.
“Whatever you t̸̞̳̒͂ḣ̴͚̎i̶̱̼̋n̵̯̎̈́k̸̹̍͋ͅ you know-”
“No! I smell blood, like right now”
With a haunting realization Alastor looks down at his chest, but it was the claws digging deeply into his thigh that were the source of the metallic scent. A few drops of the red liquid had fallen to the tile beneath him, while the rest soaked into his pants. When the demon pulls his claws out, they are coated in his own blood.
The pain was familiar, wanted even, as it snapps Alastor from whatever trance had been over him the last few hours. His anger reaching its peak, and then plummeting, everything was fair game now.
“Shit, that’s a lot of blood. Let me just-” Lucifer had walked around the island to stand in front of the demon, his hand reaching out to the open wound on his thigh. Alastor smacks at it, hard, with his cane and is granted a spike of pleasure when the King grimaces in pain.
“D̶̮̏̆̆̑ő̸͚͝͝͠n̶͍̪̺̤̲̅̂͑̈́'̸̗̮̰̃̌̾͐͆ͅt̷̡̬̣͝ ̶͚͍̠̫͉́t̸͇͠ó̵̱̖̄͝u̷̧̩̰̓̀́̇͗c̴̢̛͗́̈́h̶̡̙͈̼̀͑̅̍͝ ̵̯́͛m̸̼̲̙͋͋̊͗ȇ̶̘̭̜̦̉”
“I’m trying to help” The angel snaps, anger flaring for a moment, but it fades away when he takes a deep breath, replacing the delicious look of rage with one of pity. Lucifer’s anger was good, it was familiar, this softness was leaving a bitter taste in the demon's mouth. Alastor much preferred to watch the shorter man squirm in discomfort.
“Forgive me if I find your help to be undesirable. Last time you tried to help Charlie, it almost cost your daughter her life” Alastors mocking tone is only amplified by the fact that his cane had stopped playing music at some point. The King's anger was back in an instance, eyes glowing an ominous red.
“The extermination wasn’t my fault”
“As I recall, you were the one who originally signed on the dotted line. Making all of this death possible to begin with” Alastor stands from the stool, forcing himself to put weight on his injured leg. Blood trickles down his pants, pooling on the floor. “Tell me your majesty, what feels worse, being a failure of a father, or failure of a King”
The demon is yanked down, bending at an awkward angle, by the collar of his shirt in Lucifer's grasp. Face to face the two stare at one another, and Alastors smile only grows as he watches the emotions dance across the King's features. Anger, pain, and sadness as his eyes become glassy, tears pooled at the edges, but only one falls down his porcelain skin.
Were the King’s tears as sweet as his blood?
“You are nothing, an ant under my boot. When Charlie grows bored of you, and she will, I'll squash you.” Lucifer growls and shoves Alastor back, the taller man stumbles, trying to regain his footing, but the blood beneath him is slick and sends him tumbling to the floor, landing on his rear end. A black boot is shoved down on his chest, right over top of the freshly healed wound and Alastor barley contains his howl of pain as it reopens. But his smile doesn’t falter as he stares up at the angel. “Every breath you take, is because I allow it”
“Every day you’re alive, it’s because I allow it”. His fathers firm grip squishies Alastor's cheeks so hard they bruise as he pins his son to the wall. Wood splinters digging into the boy's back, and blood falling from his nose, mixing with the tear tracks on his face. His mother lay motionless on the floor behind the older man.
And when Lucifer puts more weight on Alastor, his horns having protruded from his head at some point during the altercation, the demon only smiles wider. He had forgotten how easy it was to hate someone.
“Of course, your majesty” Alastor fades into the shadows beneath him.
—
When he leaves his room a few hours later, and there is a slice of peach cobbler sitting outside his door, he chooses to toss it in the fire rather than eat it.