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Time was not often a unit of measurement that Lucifer tended to appreciate. As someone older than time itself, what did it matter to him how seconds turned into hours that turned into months that turned into centuries? He liked to think that it was his unique separation from time that explained his wonky internal clock. After all, angels weren’t born with an hourglass ticking down to their expiration dates like mortals did, and maybe that would also explain why he was never on-time for anything most days.
The reality of his, well, reality was that most moments of his life were simply that - moments. Fleeting and impermanent and while Lucifer could somewhat understand the why behind assigning minutes and weeks and months to different events, he was far from being able to justify the necessity. Besides, if eternity truly was so eternal, then what was the point of it all? But, then again, he knew a thing or two about how hard it was to kill old habits.
All of this to say that Lucifer didn’t usually know how to appreciate these moments in his life. Not until they were long gone and he was left with nothing but the memories and wonderings of why he hadn’t treasured each and every tangible second when it was his for the savoring.
It was just another one of his many unfavorable tendencies, his seeming inability to live in the present, but something he’d wanted to overcome - something he’d been working hard to overcome in recent months. After all, there was hardly room left for getting lost in the past or dreading futures unknown when counting the precious seconds of time between the deep inhales and exhales of one’s sleepmate.
It had been six hours, thirty-four minutes, and a handful of seconds since Alastor’s breathing had evened out, and nearly six hours and thirty-five minutes since Lucifer started counting the breaths as they left him. The demon, held warm and soft against the king’s front, whose own chest rose and fell every four seconds, would no doubt flay him alive if he ever discovered that Lucifer had spent any amount of time watching over him as he slept.
Some weeks ago, Lucifer probably wouldn’t have even bothered. Maybe he would have even felt like a bit of a creep for doing it, but for now Alastor was safe and accounted for, his ears soft against the pillow under his head and not a nightmare in sight. If Lucifer got to be the one thing in the universe to bring such a force of nature to blissful stillness then he would gladly sacrifice the shut-eye and continue to count until there were no more numbers to name the moments between them.
Or at least that was the plan.
Just under the seventh hour of his counting, there came a knocking at his bedroom door; three brisk taps that startled him cold. Warily he looked between the door and the sleeping form in his arms, torn as he weighed the pros and cons of ignoring the intrusion. Eventually guilt got the better of him as he recalled Charlie’s skepticism at him not answering her calls the last time she’d come looking for him. Well, it was the guilt but also a sense of responsibility for keeping Alastor’s secrets that had him slipping out from the delightful tangle of limbs he’d spent the better part of the night wrapped up in.
Padding over to the door, he took great care in opening it as softly as he could, wary against whatever unintended early-morning visitor could be lying in wait on the other side. It surprised him that anyone would come looking for him so early in the morning and unless he had somehow missed some kind of blaring emergency, the hotel was still relatively silent. Baffling still was the fact that the hallway was empty.
Peeking out into the dim light of the hallway, it was clear that no one was waiting for him as he answered the door. Lucifer blinked, unsure of whether to feel relieved or suspicious, though the prickling sensation down his spine seemed more than keen on answering that question for him, the unease tickling his spine and settling over the crown of his head.
He was sure he hadn’t imagined the noise, but gave the bare space a final cautionary glance before frowning and letting the door of his bedroom fall shut again with a soft click .
He turned his back to the door, hand still on the knob as he leaned back against the cool wood. There was an uneasiness about the situation that left him feeling on edge. Just because there hadn’t been anyone at the door when he opened it didn’t mean that there hadn’t been anyone there at all . These days, one could never be too careful.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, prompting his shoulders to drop their stiffness as he wandered back to the bed. Sitting down on the edge of the mattress closest to the sleeping demon, Lucifer reached out a hand and brushed the fringe tenderly from the soothing warmth of Alastor’s forehead. Seeking out more of that comfort, the angel tuned his hearing into the steady beating of his companion’s heart, the whoosh of blood flowing in his veins echoed the static hum of the sinner’s sleepy song and it was all so lovely that Lucifer almost believed he could crawl back into bed and enjoy the symphony-for-two until daylight stirred them back into reality.
Keyword being almost .
For as mollifying as Alastor’s restful sleeping was to Lucifer, the latter’s foot had started to bounce and given their history with his anxious habits, the angel knew that Alastor would be less than pleased if awoken by the sound of Lucifer’s nervous tapping against the carpet.
It was with a pathetically heavy heart that the king decided to dress himself quietly for the day. Taking special care not to wake the demon in his bed, Lucifer made quick work of the task before he headed over to the desk in the corner of his room. Pushing aside the various sheets of half-completed sketches, he managed to dig up a piece of stationary that hadn’t yet been desecrated by the whimsy of his imagination and plucked a pen to scribble a quick note, true to his word. Alastor wasn’t typically one for breakfast - he was more of a just coffee for me, thanks kind of fellow - but that didn’t mean that Lucifer couldn’t try to persuade him into eating something a bit heartier.
Swirling Alastor’s name across the front, Lucifer tucked the note under the colored glass of the demon’s monocle and then allowed himself one more glance at its owner.
Lucifer hadn’t been privy to the sight for very long - the resting face of the Radio Demon - hardly even a week, but already it seemed impossible for him to think that there would ever be a time where he would ever tire of tracing the delicate lines of Alastor’s face as he slept. Those simultaneously razor-sharp edges and suede-soft curves.
A sigh left the smiling mouth and blew Lucifer’s heart away with it. And perhaps Lucifer was falling back into his old, foolish ways, but there was hardly any grace left for him to fall from. Misery loved company, after all, and who could be more miserable than they in Hell?
Oh father, he was in terrible danger.
Mad as he was turning out to be, the thought put a smile on Lucifer’s face - a small thing that pained him as much as it welcomed him. The events of the last couple of days weighed heavily on his mind, pressed to the forefront of his thoughts as he considered all the ways in which he could come to regret all of this.
He knew better than anyone that Hell was, above all, a punishment. Despite how ordinary life might appear on a day-to-day basis, it was nothing but a poor mockery of life on Earth. Every soul had a reason to be down here and no one left the mortal realm unscathed. While the fallen angel’s own skeletons were a bit more well-known than most, he was hardly the only guy around here lugging around baggage.
Alastor certainly had a skull or two in his own closet, and though Lucifer had a sneaking suspicion of what some of those skeletons were, he just wished he could know for sure. If Alastor were anyone else, Lucifer would simply pry the information out of him, demand it, if he had to, with fury and fire and brimstone, but the Radio Demon hadn’t prevailed as long as he had in Hell by airing out his dirty laundry over the airwaves. No, the demon valued nothing above his privacy, and mystery was just another one of his shining qualities that Lucifer was learning to live with. He had said that he trusted Alastor - now Lucifer just had to prove that he meant it.
Gnawing on the inside of his lip, Lucifer turned to leave the room, but not before gathering his courage and pressing a lingering kiss to the warm skin of the deer’s forehead.
“See you soon, flower,” he whispered, tossing him a final, longing glance before slipping out the door to his room.
In the hallway once more, he found his stare sweeping over the floors, the walls, the ceiling just in case he picked up on something he had missed before, but the space was clean and he sensed no one else aside from him and Alastor. Feeling a slight twinge in his temple, he chalked it up to concern before he set his mouth in a grim line. Lucifer opted to make the journey downstairs on foot as a precaution.
The morning was relatively quiet, which made sense seeing as it was barely past dawn. Still, Charlie and Vaggie would be awake soon and then he could really dive into the day. Who knew, maybe today would be the day that Lucifer was finally on-time for the morning staff meeting. Yes, perhaps there was room for miracles in Hell after all.
The king occupied himself with simple trains of thought as he walked, counting the steps of each stairwell between the floors and when the lingering threat of his irrational anxiety threatened to burst through his meager concentration, he forced another topic into his mind. You know, the little items on his agenda that so often fell through the massive cracks of his otherwise busy schedule. He couldn’t ignore his duties forever, after all. Anything from re-warding the protective spells on the hotel’s filtration systems - the acid in the realm’s water supply did a real number on their pipes - to his next art piece - he’d caught the creative bug again and was willing to ride that particular wave as far as it would take him - and even what would be best to serve for breakfast.
It was that final topic that finally delivered him to the lobby and made him pause. It was far too early for breakfast, and while Lucifer could always conjure up a couple of warmers to keep breakfast nice and toasty until everyone else came downstairs, he was of the opinion that breakfast was a meal best enjoyed fresh, so he put that particular task on the backburner for the time being.
Lucifer pivoted on his heel, turning away from the direction of the kitchen and heading instead towards the bar. It was too early for a drink, not that he wanted one, and he knew that Husk tended to open closer to the afternoon, but the king figured it wouldn’t hurt to swing by and take a quick look at their inventory.
Maintaining the bar wasn’t exactly in his job description per se, but he figured that if there were any of their more special spirits that needed ordering, he would probably be the best means for wrangling those anyways. Not that Lucifer needed any excuses to contact Beelzebub, but the guilt from the hundreds of unread messages from her in his inbox was a thorn in his side that he probably shouldn’t ignore any more.
Shame crept over him at the realization of just how many of his responsibilities he had neglected and allowed to fall into ruin. His relationships with his wife and daughter, the realm, his subjects, and even the Ring’s governing structure. Bee hadn’t been the only one to try to reach out to him, to try and pull him out of his funk, and while Lucifer appreciated the Sins for their efforts to keep him involved in the running of Hell, he knew that their care and concern was something that he didn’t deserve.
He had no one to blame for his decline but himself, and while that thought might have made him dig himself deeper into his pit of despair just months ago, Lucifer was starting to accept it for what it was: a fact and a natural consequence. He couldn’t forgive himself for neglecting his responsibilities, nor could he ask for forgiveness from others just yet, but he was starting to understand that genuine change required recognition, effort, and accountability.
Patching things up with Charlie was just the first stop in his road trip to self-improvement. For the first time he allowed himself to consider that the new treaty with Heaven could mean the start of something new for all of them - a second chance. He had big plans for rectification in all sectors of his life, and as daunting of an undertaking as that seemed, Lucifer also realized that what he was feeling tasted an awful lot like hope and he was determined not to squander his shot at redemption. His chest warmed and he made a mental note to send Bee a message later on.
Waving his hands, he conjured a few crates from the cellar, just enough of the essentials to replenish the dwindling supplies behind the bar. Then, convinced that there was nothing left for him to do at the bar - Husk was impressively tidy and efficient - Lucifer was about to kill the next bit of time before breakfast at the art studio when a flash of red by the bar’s entrance caught his eye.
He halted before the photo wall, which had become significantly more crowded since the last time he had taken the time to stop and look at it. There were, unsurprisingly, even more photos of Angel Dust among the growing collection, but also a significant increase in characters that Lucifer wasn’t familiar with. That should have been a good sign, it meant that more and more souls were passing through the halls of the hotel, and under any other circumstances Lucifer would have felt the magnitude of that accomplishment, except he was too preoccupied by the blur of crimson and gold poking out from the mosaic of grins and poses.
Slowly, almost reverently, the angel plucked one of the pushpins from the wall and maneuvered the half-covered photograph from underneath the others. He wasn’t sure if he was breathing or not as his wide eyes pulled the image in his hands into focus, but the matter was quickly resolved when he realized what he was looking at and a small gasp left him.
It was a photograph of him and Alastor, presumably taken at the open house. They were in the dance hall, the shine of the strung-up lights wreathing them in a soft glow. Upon closer inspection, Lucifer realized that the photo was taken in the moments following one of Alastor’s more theatrical moves as he caught him after a spin.
The demon’s arms were crossed over the angel’s body, their fingers slotted together and arms tucked in close as he held their momentum securely. They were smiling, the both of them, mouths perfectly mirrored as their bodies slanted in sync with one another’s. Alastor leaned over him, his ears perked in Lucifer’s direction and there was a giddy glee creasing the angel’s eyes that he hardly recognized. It had been so long since he’d felt like that, so bright and so light, but there was a warmth pulsing in his chest at the memory of that night, of that dance, that moment, and as unfamiliar as Lucifer was with the sentiment on display, he couldn’t say that it had been misplaced.
He loved dancing with Alastor.
He traced the tangle of their limbs with the tip of his finger. Odd, he hadn’t even felt a camera on them at the time, though it surely came as no surprise that someone would want to snap a picture of the King of Hell dancing with an Overlord. Afterall, it had been over a century since he last attended an event and Alastor was, well, Alastor - the guy demanded all eyes on him anywhere he went.
What did surprise him was how clear the image was, seeing as how the demon wasn’t particularly fond of anyone or anything capturing his likeness, especially so brazenly. Yet the picture in his hands was crystal clear and while Lucifer couldn’t know who had taken it, he was glad to have it.
Selfish as he was, Lucifer went to pocket the photo for his own personal collection, was about to fold it in half and tuck it into his vest pocket for safekeeping, when a line of ink on the back caught his attention. Curious, he turned the photo over completely, expecting to read a date or some kind of caption written on the back.
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.
Two lines of poetry, Lucifer could assume as much, scrawled in familiar penmanship. He knew who it belonged to, but even as he stared at it, read the lines over and over, etched them into the walls of his chest, he couldn’t believe it. And even as his pulse quickened in response, his fingers trembling in time with the airy feeling in his head, he couldn’t help but wonder if it meant what he wanted it to mean. To think - to dare to hope - that there could be more to him - to them - than he ever allowed himself to believe… It was irrational. It was reckless and bizarre. And maybe it was true.
My god, let it be true.
He was at odds with the lump in his throat, not quite sure of why it had lodged itself so firmly in his windpipe, but he swallowed past it nonetheless. Lucifer pocketed the photo, patting his hand over its resting place on the left side of his chest.
He turned on his heel, ready to pivot towards the kitchen when the twinge in his temple returned. It was that same subtle sting he had felt when he left his room, and while he had chalked it up to his wariness at the time, to ignore it a second time would be unwise of him. Fallen or not, he was an angel and angel’s weren’t subjected to the same physical ailments that lesser beings tended to endure, headaches included.
Bringing a hand to the side of his head, Lucifer grit his teeth as he applied pressure in the soft divot between his ear and forehead for a few seconds. When he removed it, the pain was no longer as persistent, but still noticeable.
He proceeded to the kitchen to make breakfast, intent on ignoring the feeling in hopes that it would go away on its own, but the sensation had steadily progressed from a slight stinging to an aching throb. For the better part of an hour he managed to ignore it, occupying himself with whisking eggs and chopping vegetables and pouring juice.
His efforts to distract himself from the mounting pressure in his head were relieved by the entrance of Charlie and Vaggie and then Niffty and Husk. Yet, as delighted as he was to see all of them, their presence seemed to only worsen the pounding in his skull. His anxiety spiked as their mild chatter mingled with the throbbing in his head. As the minutes crawled by, the pain only worsened and he felt his hairline grow cold and damp as sweat prickled at his skin and his hand tightened reflexively on the utensil in his hand as he fought the urge to bark at all of them to be quiet.
Lucifer’s breaths were turning shallow. Simultaneously, his mind raced, trying to think of a reasonable explanation for what could be causing his headache. Angels didn't hurt the same way mortals did - it wasn’t something that should have even occurred naturally. Lucifer thought back to the last couple of days and realized that they had been a huge jumbled mess of stress and worry. His stomach sank.
Maybe Alastor was right? Maybe the king was exhausted and this was his body’s way of telling him to take it easy. That had to be it, right? He would excuse himself after breakfast and go upstairs, treat himself to a well-deserved nap and maybe coax the demon into lying down with him for just another hour or two. He just had to keep it together for a few more minutes.
Which was a lovely idea in theory, of course, except for the fact that his ears had started to ring, adding onto the drumming in his head. The sound of the food sizzling on the stove seemed to grow as loud as a massive wave crashing just inches away from him and his knees were wobbly and his palms were slick with sweat. There were fresh gauges in the wood of the spatula, left there by his claws and he couldn’t remember when he’d last blinked or if the white countertop had always tilted and swayed like that.
And still, despite the hideous way his skin crawled and his gums ached from gritting his teeth so hard, they just kept on talking .
His composure finally cracked when someone set a glass down just a smidge too hard and the unexpected noise made Lucifer jump. He dropped the pan he’d been holding, half-cooked eggs sloshing over the rim and splattering over the stove as the spatula he was holding in his other hand fell to the floor. He shut his eyes, colors swimming behind his eyelids as he grimaced against the stabbing sensation threatening to burst his cranium.
Sucking in a hissed breath through the tight clench of his teeth, the angel jammed the heels of his hands over his temples in a feeble attempt to alleviate the pain. Instinctively he curled in on himself, some primal sense of self-preservation telling him to protect, to run and hide, but what good was that when the only threat in the room was inside of him?
His chest rose and fell in time with the brittle gulps of air he managed to suck in, the ringing in his ears turning into a high-pitched whine, white-hot as it seemed to burrow itself deeper and deeper into him, past his head and down his chest, an electric shock raising every fine hair on his body and filling him with a desperate, wild urge to dispel his corporal form and rid himself of this awful torment.
Then, as though someone had finally found it within themselves to be merciful, the feeling was gone.
In an instant, his agony was replaced by the feeling of something ice cold drenching him down to the bone. When his eyes snapped open, the ringing in his ears had retreated nearly entirely and the room was oddly mute, like someone had stuffed cotton in his ears. A shiver ran up his spine and a moment later he was face-to-face with the dark, stricken face of Alastor’s shadow.
“Spike,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and gritty as though he’d spent the last century screaming into the abyss.
The creature tightened its hold on the angel, form swelling to drape over his shoulders as it nearly swallowed his frame completely. Numbly, Lucifer reached a hand out to its head, his fingers just grazing over the barely-there feeling of the shadow’s ear before Spike tore away from him, red mouth bared and feral as it hissed at the intruder who’d dared approach them.
Looking past him, Lucifer caught the startled eyes of his daughter who looked like she’d been crying, her hand half-extended towards him like she’d had to quickly snatch it back. “Dad?” She asked, her words tainted with concern and an ounce of fear. Spike wound himself tighter around Lucifer’s body, poised like a snake ready to strike and Charlie took a step back as it snapped its teeth.
Lucifer blinked, his mind seeming to finally catch up with what his eyes were seeing and he realized that it was just Charlie in the room with him and Alastor’s shadow. His mouth opened, poised for an explanation, an apology, something - anything - before a wave of nausea caused him to snap his mouth shut and Spike gave out another hiss.
“I have to go,” he managed before disappearing entirely. No portal, no chiming of bells or explosion of red sparks, just him in the kitchen one second and a darkened hallway the next.
His chest was heaving, but it was like the air was too thick as it settled into his lungs and he felt like he was suffocating. He backed into the wall, letting gravity pull him down as he pulled his knees up to meet him. Despite the way his mind was swimming, Lucifer compelled himself to focus on regaining control as he hung his head.
Eventually, when the world around him finally seemed to settle down, Lucifer looked up to find the shadow standing steadfastly at his feet, its ears drooped as it bared its teeth in a threatening smile. Lucifer pushed himself back onto his feet, swaying slightly as he glanced down the hallway. It was his hallway, or rather their hallway, but why he had landed here, closer to Alastor’s rooms, as opposed to the familiarity of his own was baffling even to him.
Spike moved with him, spinning madly around his feet as Lucifer took a step in the direction of his own suite and he yelped as he almost stepped on the creature's face.
“Hey, what gives,” he reprimanded weakly. Lucifer was still shaken from before and mildly annoyed that the shadow was only making his trek back to his bed all the more difficult.
Spike only pulled a frown, dropping the hostility in his expression in favor of something a little more pleading. In a moment of true brilliance, it dawned on Lucifer that he was being herded and he took a step towards the door of Alastor’s room to test the theory.
Bingo.
The shadow’s ears perked up at the move and he went back to looping wildly around the ruler. Lucifer wanted to question the creature further, but bit his tongue as his slow footsteps brought him closer to the end of the hallway he’d grown to associate with warmth and safety.
Despite this, the churning in his stomach stirred up again and he was suddenly grateful that he hadn’t eaten anything that morning. That thought turned the sick feeling in his gut into lead as he remembered that Alastor was supposed to meet him for breakfast. Except Alastor hadn’t shown up, had he? But Spike had. And now the demon’s shadow was leading Lucifer in the direction of his sanctuary and Lucifer could only imagine why he’d felt the need to send a messenger instead of coming to get the king himself.
Worry gnawed away at him, overshadowing any concern he’d had about his own wellbeing. His apprehension grew when the door opened noiselessly under his touch to reveal a dark room. Much as it had been that morning when Alastor ran away from him without a word of explanation, like the day that he’d disappeared and missed dinner. Nothing good ever came from that fireplace being empty and Lucifer was starting to take it as a bad omen for things to come.
The door closed behind him with a soft click , and then it was just him standing alone in the unsettling silence of the room.
“Alastor?”
There was no response and when the angel turned to Spike for some sort of explanation, the shadow was nowhere to be seen. Worry was replaced with dread and Lucifer had to wrap his arms around himself to keep from shivering as he ventured deeper into the room.
Everything was untouched. Pristine as it always had been, despite the more eclectic design choices. Records lined the shelves, sorted by year just as the books on the adjacent shelves were sorted by author. Their chairs stood like two stoic sentinels, cold and unused, and Lucifer couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong here. The tightening sensation in his chest told him to turn and run until he found the demon in question, but the urge was overpowered by the tug in his gut that propelled him deeper into the room. The shadow had brought him here for something, and for better or for worse he was going to find out what it was.
One of the floorboards creaked beneath his weight and Lucifer winced as the noise split the quiet of the room. He pressed forward, stepping past the front room and into the hall. He had only been down this way once before, on that first night that he had come looking to confront Alastor for his sketchy behavior. So much had changed since then, especially between the two of them, yet the closer he drew to the pulsing blue light of the bayou, the harder it became for Lucifer to shake the feeling that they were right back where they had started all those weeks ago. So lost in their secrets and timebombs.
The air was warm and heavy as he stepped through the threshold of the room which housed the mimic-swamp. Much as he had been the first time he saw it, Lucifer couldn’t help but be impressed by the magnitude of the scene before him. The sky was dark, a deep blue lit by what he could only assume was the light of a missing moon. It smelled heavily of organic greenery and the earth and the sound of a trickling stream paired well with the noise of insects chirping in the breeze. Lucifer would almost consider the place idyllic, were it not for the mounting despair creeping over him.
Yet, even as his nerves were fraying right before his eyes, he couldn’t help but acknowledge just how familiar the room around him seemed. Everything was so alive and it felt like Alastor in here - not the Alastor that lurked and terrorized and haunted with his cruelty, but the Alastor that sipped tea and read poetry and sparkled under starlight and cherished the sight and smell of magnolia blossoms. It made his heart ache thinking about how much he would’ve loved to experience this discovery with the demon at his side. To be invited in not because his shadow had practically begged him to, but because the demon wanted Lucifer to be there with him, too.
He felt guilt settle alongside the heaviness inside of him.
A rustling caught his attention and when he whipped around to face the source, Spike was staring back at him from behind one of the many trees. The expression on the creature’s face was solemn and meek and nothing like Lucifer had ever known it to be, which only added to his sense of unease at the situation. Stepping onto the ground, his heel sank slightly into the dampness of the earth and Spike darted forward, deeper into the swampland and nearly out of sight.
Lucifer followed him - he had to follow him. He followed the darting figure deeper and deeper into the woods until the underbrush grew thick and unruly and the trees started to grow alongside each other in thick clumps. The ground beneath his feet hardened the further he ventured, eyes fixed desperately on the rapidly retreating figure of the shadow as it wove between low branches and hanging moss.
Lucifer could practically see its anguish as it lured him further and further from what little semblance of a trail they had been on before. He couldn’t afford to look down as he followed, fear seizing him at the idea of losing Spike’s frantic lead, so he stumbled through the foliage, crashing through bushes and tripping over the gnarled roots of cypress trees as he pushed aside the moss that hung low across their limbs like netting threatening to ensnare him.
The sky above him was darker, and he hadn’t realized when that had happened, but even his eyes were having a hard time seeing in this unnatural darkness which was descending upon him at a startling rate. He felt around somewhat blindly, and Lucifer was not one to fall victim to panic so easily, but every clumsy step sent his heart leaping into his throat, every hard impact with the trunk of a tree and every new scrape chilled the blood in his veins. The sound of his pounding heart filled his ears, thundering against the walls of his chest in time with his desperate footsteps.
By some wretched luck, a new noise emerged over the terror singing through him. It was slight, so gradual at first that it was barely audible over the harsh sound of his ragged breathing, and then faint enough to be confused with the sound of the wind. The noise intensified and then Lucifer thought he was finally succumbing to the madness of the marshy labyrinth he was trapped in, but then the sound of it settled in his ears and he knew he wasn’t imagining it.
Even his tortured mind couldn’t possibly conjure something so horrible as the laughter that echoed across the treetops.
It brought him to a standstill, every part of him freezing as the distorted noise of someone laughing rolled down his spine and infiltrated the sanctuary of his mind. There was no source to be found as Lucifer searched around him wildly for its origin, spinning and straining to see past the blasted darkness that blinded him. The laughter grew louder and louder until it roared all around him, pelted him with its horrible dissonance, and he shoved his hands over his ears in a futile attempt to muffle the terrible sound of it.
Without meaning to, Lucifer was moving again and beneath the fear that had gripped him so completely in the darkness, he felt the familiar cold weight of Spike wound around his wrist as he tugged him in a senseless direction. Lucifer didn’t argue with the shadow, kicking his limbs into overdrive as he struggled against whatever entity had rooted him in place, but any attempt to move was met with tremendous resistance and his legs felt like they were pushing through something thick and viscous, like he was wading through waist-deep mud. Every triumphant step forward was met with a near-violent shove backwards, like a sailboat being beaten back from the safety of the marina by a violent wind.
And the laughter continued, ringing loud and cruel and Lucifer was no longer sure that the noise was still coming from outside of his head. He felt himself losing his hold on reality as his stomach lurched violently, the high-pitched giggle that projected itself directly into his left ear as real as if someone were standing right next to him.
It was relentless, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once, taunting as it wrapped itself around his heart, capturing it in an unforgiving grasp of ice and agony. Lucifer wasn’t sure where it was coming from, why it was there, or why he was hearing it now - all he knew was that he wanted it to stop before it consumed him entirely.
Every mental move he made to evade the effects of the laughter were met in vain, dread and anxiety growing with every sickening round - it was like the laughter was physically imposing its will on him, coaxing him closer and closer to some forbidden brink. Lucifer had never felt so small - so hunted - and just when he thought he had reached the point of no return, there was a break in the trees. He willed himself forward, pushing against the ground with every ounce of strength he could muster, and broke through the darkness, landing in a crumpled heap at the edge of a clearing before everything went still.
Silence. Blessed, beautiful silence. Lucifer didn’t think he’d ever heard a more precious sound in his life, but all at once he was surrounded by its saving grace. It was like someone had removed their hands from over his eyes because he blinked and suddenly he could see clearly through the dim light of the midnight swamp.
He was sweaty and trembling still from his ordeal in the forest. He couldn’t help himself as he looked back over at the tree line, as though he would be able to see whatever entity that had abused him, but there was nothing there. No string of speakers to broadcast a pre-recorded torture, no army of evil invisible clowns, either. No one to blame for the horrible laughter that still rang faintly in his ears.
Lucifer gulped, wiping a shaking hand under his wet eyes as he backed away from the forest. He hated to think as much, but he wondered whether Alastor was responsible for the nightmarish projections. It wouldn’t be entirely unlikely. The demon had a history of broadcasting screams as a warning; a reminder of his power and ferocity. But Lucifer knew Alastor - and while everything else in this pseudo-biome exuded him, whatever the fuck that had been definitely didn’t feel like the demon.
No , Lucifer concluded resolutely , that definitely wasn’t Alastor’s doing .
He sat back on his haunches, catching his breath as he held his head in his hands. He sniffed, his pulse sharp as the adrenaline in his veins ran its course. The ground beneath him was damp, he could feel the wetness of it soaking through the fabric of his pants, and when he brought his head back up he noted that he wasn’t alone.
There in the middle of the small clearing was a small structure - some kind of bungalow, a cabin maybe? It looked washed out and faded under the silver light of the moon and from beneath the darkness of the raised porch were two glowing eyes staring back at him.
Lucifer rose to his feet and as he turned his back completely to the forest, there was a prickling feeling at the back of his neck. He was being watched.
Approaching the structure, he tried not to let his agitation show. It was clear that the building was old, perhaps even abandoned, but then why would Alastor have needed a cabin he never even used? And why go through all the trouble of placing it so far off the trail, so deep into the expanse of his mimic-dimension?
The wood of the porch steps was old, bowed and rotted to the point where Lucifer was afraid it wouldn’t even be able to support his slight weight. The railings fared no better in their warped and splintered state. By the looks of it, the wood of the cabin had once been painted, at least on the front, but most of it seemed to have peeled off. Curling remnants hung off in odd patches as sloughed bits littered the floor beneath and Lucifer’s heart clenched in his chest, a strange pang of sadness moving through him as he took in the sorry state of the structure.
Spike appeared at his feet once more and his own sadness seemed to confirm Lucifer’s suspicions: this place meant something to Alastor. Maybe not now, but it had to have held some sort of significance to him when he was alive. To see it now, worn and discarded, shoved so far into the miles and miles of trees and swamps and darkness - well, Lucifer could only wonder why.
He took a shuddering breath, sniffing hard as he brought a hand up to pull at the tattered screen door. Spike wound around his calf and though Lucifer couldn’t see him, he could feel the way the creature pressed itself into his back. The door groaned feebly on its rusted hinges and the noise nearly made him jump. It seemed so loud, blaring against the silence that surrounded them now, and Lucifer hadn’t really realized how odd the quiet around him was until that moment.
There was another door on the other side of the screen and as Lucifer put a hand to that knob as well, he stopped for a moment. He didn’t know what scene lay waiting for him on the other side. He didn’t know if he even wanted to know. And he didn’t have to know. There was no move made that couldn’t be undone. Lucifer could turn around and leave right now. He could find Alastor and sit down to have breakfast with him and hold him in his arms and apologize profusely for invading his privacy and he would never have to find out what terrible things waited for him at the bottom of this precipice he was standing on.
He could do it .
But he wouldn’t do it. Not when Alastor’s shadow brought him all the way here for a reason. Not when Alastor was so adamant about concealing his skeletons, even at the expense of his own safety. Not when Lucifer could do something to make it better. Before he could let his second-guessing get the better of him, Lucifer swung the front door open.
The room was fairly unremarkable, much like the outside of the cabin. It was dark and dank and the air smelled musty and stale. Stepping cautiously through the doorway, Lucifer noted that there wasn’t much in terms of a layout, just an open room that was overgrown with weeds. Foliage crept in through one of the broken windows and climbed up the walls, which were also stained and peeling.
Lucifer had never asked much about Alastor’s hobbies, but he gleaned that the man was fond of hunting and this cabin was testament of that. He stood just past the entrance, looking around at the several animal figures hanging from the walls - exotic skulls of alligators and snake skeletons and wild cats, but most unnerving of all are all of the antlers. Racks of all shapes and sizes spanning from one stretch of wall to the next. They looked nothing like the fine, delicate points of Alastor’s own, and while Lucifer understood that Alastor wasn’t actually a deer, the sight of them mounted on the wall unnerved him.
Besides, he had created all of that, all of those animals, and while he knew the intention was always for them to be used for nourishment and tools, Lucifer had never really approved of killing for sport. It was a waste–an unnecessary cruelty.
Tearing his eyes from the walls, the only other furniture in the room was a big black chest. It was leather-bound and dated, covered in a thick layer of dust and pushed up against the far corner of the room. Lucifer approached it, feeling the cold pressure of Spike disappear entirely from his back as he heaved it closer to him and away from the wall.
There was nothing noteworthy about the chest - it was black and aged, the brass hardware was perhaps a little worn and scratched, but overall the thing was rather plain. Curiously, he hovered his hand over the top, dispelling the dust and grime entirely with a thought, and with the removal came the revelation of a faint golden monogram etched into the lid with the initials CAL .
Lucifer barely had time to wonder who the chest might have belonged to when the latches popped open all on their own. He froze, looking over his shoulder to see if perhaps Spike had undone them, but the creature was nowhere to be seen, seeming to have high-tailed it out of there once his job of delivering the devil was done.
The lid made no creepy creaking noise as it popped open a few centimeters, but Lucifer felt that the lack of sound from something so old and decrepit was somehow even spookier. Warily, he opened the lid the rest of the way until it locked on its hinges and he peered inside, hoping for any kind of explanation to the oddities that he’d endured.
The chest wasn’t filled and what little contents it held were pressed into the bottom half and covered with an old wool blanket. What did catch his eye, however, was the familiar red gleam of Alastor’s microphone - the old one that had been broken by Adam during the last Exorcism. When Lucifer had last seen it, the staff had been whole, but now it was sitting atop the heap in two, split jaggedly right at the middle. The temptation to reach out and touch it swirled through him, but he refrained, remembering the promise he’d made to Alastor that he’d hold off on any more graceful probing of remnant energy until his hands were fully healed. Instead, he lifted one of the folds of the blanket and used it to push the pieces of the instrument aside.
Tucking the edge of the blanket around the pieces, Lucifer’s eyes caught the dull shine of another object that had presumably been wrapped in the blanket. He pulled at the exposed edge, tugging it out gingerly from beneath its wrapping.
It was a picture frame of a dull, golden quality. Old, clearly, like everything else in the cabin, but not empty. There was, to Lucifer’s surprise, a photograph pressed behind the pane of glass - two figures, a man and a woman, standing and sitting in a chair respectively, whose faces had been scratched out. Cradling it delicately in his hands, Lucifer felt like he was beholding something treasured. The photograph was real after all - not just a conjured replica like everything else in the fake bayou.
While it wasn’t impossible for sinners to call objects down from the land of the living, it was just incredibly difficult and required a lot of power, which is why most sinners incapable of conjuring tended to settle for replicas. Usually the larger the object, the harder it was to summon, but something as small as a photograph should have been simple enough for someone as powerful as the Radio Demon.
It had to have meant a great deal to him.
Armed with the knowledge and brimming with morbid curiosity, Lucifer brushed his fingers down the space where the woman’s face would be, and watched the scratches fade as the image stitched itself back together.
The woman staring back at him was achingly beautiful. Her features were soft and round, her dark skin made her stand out amidst the light background. She sat in a fine, tailored dress, her hair short and pinned back. And while her mouth was set in a subdued line and the curved arches of her eyebrows harbored an underlying tension, her eyes were bright and familiar. There was a defiance to them, a fire, a liveliness that was so recognizable to Lucifer that it was impossible for him to mistake where he had seen them before.
This was Alastor’s mother - Marion, was her name?
Marion. He’d heard that name recently, hadn’t he? When Alastor was having a nightmare the other night he had said her name.
They’re not exactly nightmares - not, like, real nightmares… he knows exactly what we don’t want to see and he forces us to watch it anyway… It’s his way of keeping us in line.
Angel’s explanation hit him like a swift punch to the gut and he nearly dropped the frame as he sat back, stunned and queasy. Lucifer felt hot and cold at the same time, burning and freezing and unbearable as his head swam and his temples pulsed.
All at once he rushed forward, intent on replacing the photo and shutting the chest and forgetting he had ever let himself be brought to this horrible cabin in the first place. His hands shook as his eyes blurred with gathering tears. In his haste to pull the blanket back into place, his fingers bumped against something else hidden within the folds and the physical shock that the brief contact elicits rattles him enough to pause.
He was starting to hate it. The lies and the secrets. The way he’d let his defenses down for a man he didn’t even know - a man who didn’t want to be known. He hated the way he couldn’t bring himself to settle on regret when thinking of the demon. He hated his stupid heart and the demon’s stupid shadow for making him come to this stupid cabin. Above all, Lucifer hated that he knew what that shock that seemed to singe every nerve ending up to his elbow meant - and he hated that he had to ruin everything by uncovering it.
Using the same tactic he’d used for handling the staff, Lucifer pulled back the blanket until he revealed the polished hilt of a blade. It was a hunting knife, long and sheathed in scratched and worn leather. The handle was white and speckled and Lucifer realized that it was, ironically, carved from an antler.
Bracing himself, he reached out a tentative hand and traced over the worn smoothness of it with the tip of a finger. He shuddered, pulling away when he felt the grating effect of his grace mingling with some foreign power.
What was Alastor doing with another imbued object?
Well he was in it now, and if this was what Spike had brought him here for, then Lucifer had to do his due diligence. He sat back on his heels, reaching out with his grace until he located the strain of strange magic harbored within the knife.
To his relief, it was a stable power, unlike the one harbored in Alastor’s staff after the fight with Adam, but it was dense - almost irresponsibly so. There was too much packed into such a small object, which meant that whoever imbued the weapon intended for its wielder to do a lot of damage with it.
Pushing further into the energy, Lucifer wasn’t met with so much resistance and he could feel the familiar strain of Alastor’s power threaded throughout. However, it wasn’t just his power present. There was something more there, something so plainly dangerous that the feather’s down his back bristled like they were ready to carry him out of there whether he wanted to or not. The feeling stirred something in the back of Lucifer’s mind - something ancient and untouched like some hidden protocol that was ingrained into his factory settings.
Whatever this power was, it didn’t belong here, or anywhere for that matter.
He opened his eyes, pulling back his grace even as he reached out with his hands. He swallowed, his mouth dry as the thick air settled into his lungs. His fingers wrapped around the handle and he ignored the way his delicate, healing palms stung as he unsheathed the blade, revealing the polished surface of the metal.
Only then did Lucifer understand why the weapon had felt so wrong: it was forged out of celestial steel. He could see it now, shining traces folded in with the Damascus steel, shimmering lines of gleaming, golden light alongside the dark and swirling silver. The combination was lethal - to mortals and demons alike.
Celestial steel, much like angelic steel, was harmful to sinners and low-grade beings from either realm. Unlike angelic steel, it was capable of harming a higher caliber of entity. As far as anyone in Hell knew, celestial steel was nothing but a myth. As far as Lucifer knew, no one in Heaven or Hell had access to anything made from celestial steel - both sides had made sure of that a long time ago. So what the hell was Alastor doing with a celestial steel weapon?
Lucifer was almost certain he wouldn’t get a straight answer out of the demon, even if he did try to force it out of him.
A deep ache throbbed in his chest at the devastating realization that he was so far away from the man. Here Lucifer thought that he was chipping away at all those layers, uncovering the soul beneath the teeth and claws, but he’d never even come close. Alastor never trusted him - the fact that he was sitting there in the middle of a cabin in the woods, miles and miles away with a forbidden weapon in his hand proved as much.
How pathetic did it make the devil to know that regardless of the betrayal and the dishonesty, he was still going to do whatever he could to make sure no one ever found out about this? If word got out that something this verboten was in the hands of a sinner - an Overlord with immediate access to Hell’s monarchy, no less - there wouldn’t even be a trial. Alastor would be dead, gone before anyone could so much as utter a word.
But maybe, just maybe, if Lucifer could figure out how he got it - who he’d gotten it from - he could find a way for Alastor to be spared. Clutching the knife in both of his hands, Lucifer reached out with his grace once more, determined to recover whatever traces of memories remained embedded in the magic’s essence.
The search proceeded without much resistance and Lucifer wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or concerned about that. He could still feel the familiar hum of Alastor’s magic, which he assumed was somehow tied into the object itself, but in order for Lucifer to find the answers that he was really after, he had to reach far deeper than that. Concentrating on sifting through the threads of energy radiating from the weapon in his hands, he followed the trail further and further until finally, he hit the wall he’d been looking for.
Like he had with Alastor’s staff, he nudged at it with his grace, probing until it gave way under his superior strength and as the walls fell, he felt the first flow of memories trickle though in a hazy montage.
Looking down, he saw a set of bloodied hands, shaking as moonlight reflected off of the tacky wetness staining them. Accompanying the sight was the feeling of sorrow, terrible sorrow, then agony as the scene shifted to focus on a broken flower vase rolling back and forth on a dining room table. A fierce hunger came over him after that, primal and urging, and when he opened his eyes again he was staring at the rain as it dripped off of the leaves of a vast magnolia tree.
Then darkness.
For a moment Lucifer thought he’d seen all that the essence had to offer, but then he heard a familiar laughter and a second later it was like all the warmth had been leached from the earth. Desperation seized him as he tried to open his eyes, blinking rapidly as if that would deliver him from the unfathomable darkness that encroached. Then from the darkness there came a disembodied voice, ancient and cold. It was speaking to him, to Alastor, and Lucifer could feel the unsteadiness in his legs, the fear in his heart, and the overwhelming sense of helplessness.
It spoke and the voice sounded like dozens of people speaking all at once. Lucifer could hear the high pitch of children muttering words in tandem with that of old men as they vocalized a promise, delivered a calling, a higher purpose, right before they offered him a choice.
And he was helpless, so helpless and afraid and alone. And he was so angry . He had been wronged and cheated and he had been offered a chance to make things right .
And who was Alastor to refuse?
He accepted. Lucifer felt his mouth form around words he never said and in the aftermath of the agreement the words reverberated around him, echoed in his ears and in his head like the crashing of cymbals, and in that same moment of severity, something emerged from within the darkness.
A glowing smile.
Cheer up little fawn , it cooed, yet Lucifer felt anything but comforted as the figure approached.
You will bring to pass many great and terrible things. Smile dear, all will be as all should have been .
From the darkness a hand reached out, haggard and thin. It was holding something out to him, something pale and long. His pulse raced in his throat and his stomach clenched painfully as it threatened to expel its meager contents, but he moved forward regardless. His shaking hands reached for the handle of the knife and the moment his fingers closed over the handle, the world erupted in laughter.
Lucifer dropped the blade, returning to himself with a gasping breath. His head was ringing again, no noise coming to him save for the high-pitched noise that split through him. He felt like he was floating, numb to the searing in his palms and disconnected from surroundings as he tried to recall a way to process what he had seen.
He felt hollow. Like someone had removed all of his internal organs and left just an empty husk. There was no lurching in his gut, no tightening in his chest, just a cold vacancy where everything used to be and a trembling that rippled up and down his spine.
There was someone behind him. That was the first sensation he received from his body and it took him a while to comprehend what that meant. It took him another few seconds to recognize that it was Alastor.
He couldn’t make out if the demon was speaking to him or not, but he rose to his unsteady feet nonetheless. He turned slowly, facing the gleaming mouth of the sinner but unable to see anything other than that horrible smile from the vision.
“Alastor,” he said. His voice was even and quiet. “Who exactly did you make a deal with?”
He watched in real time as the demon’s face fell, what little color he had drained from his face at the king’s question. Then, like a flip had been switched, the demon bared his teeth in a growl as fury coated his features.
“You have no right to be in here,” he spat, his eyes pitching into radio dials as they darkened. Lucifer didn’t respond, was never given the opportunity as the Radio Demon advanced on him. “Your daughter preaches of respecting boundaries and privacy, yet her own father waltzes around bulldozing over every single one. The rules apply to everyone but the king, is that so? You believe yourself to be so far above all of us, is that right? Well I was right not to trust you, Lucifer.”
He had gotten right up in the king’s face, spittle flying as he gnashed through his words, his aim lethal as he spoke. But the angel didn’t react. Lucifer’s face was like stone, smooth and expressionless and he gave nothing away.
“Alastor,” he repeated. And it wasn’t accusing like Alastor thought it would be, nor was it spoken with the promise of retribution. Alastor gulped, his fists shaking due to how tightly they were clenched at his side.
“You’re a hypocrite,” he tried, venom dripping from every word even as he took a step back. “You said that you trusted me. You said you’d take my truths however I was willing to give them.”
Somewhere beyond the realm that the angel was capable of feeling at the moment, the words landed true to their target and muted part of him stung. Outwardly, Lucifer could only blink and repeat the only truth he knew.
“Alastor.”
“You lied . You’re a lying, traitorous snake , Lucifer Morningstar.” And perhaps that blow would have caused more damage had it not been for the way the demon’s ears flattened against his skull, betraying him.
“Who have you made a deal with, Alastor?”
It wasn’t Lucifer who spoke. If Alastor hadn’t been standing in front of him, if he hadn’t been meticulously tracing every detail of his face at the time of him opening his mouth and projecting the words, he would have almost believed that someone else had spoken them entirely. It wasn’t the same voice that he’d come to know, smooth as whiskey and light as air. No, whoever had spoken had a voice like the voids of space and the rolling timbre of a landslide. It sounded like sub-freezing devastation and had his ears pressing harder against the back of his head.
“Why?” His response was weak, feeble even. He hadn’t even wanted to answer at all, but he felt a compulsion at the back of his throat to answer his king’s question. “Why is that so important to you? Out of everything, why must you care about that?”
“I won’t ask again.”
“ I said I don’t know !”
It was honest, perhaps the most honest thing to ever leave the sinner's mouth and Lucifer didn’t feel the need to question him about it as the demon whirled away from him, pacing in agitation as his hands fisted in his hair. The sight stirred something in Lucifer’s chest, a signal in him responding to the demon’s distress.
“I don’t know,” Alastor repeated, earnest and desperate as he burned a trail in the floor the length of the room with every step. “They didn’t tell me their name. I don’t know, I’m sorry .”
An apology. How many times had Lucifer wished for something like that from the demon? He had one now, but it didn’t feel right, didn’t feel good.
“I believe you,” Lucifer said, and there was a sickening cracking sound as Alastor’s neck turned to look at him.
“You do?” Relief, plain and complete.
“I do.” He swallowed. “But I still need to know who did it. I need to know who gave you this .” He gestured to the chest where the hunting knife was still sitting on top of the wool blanket.
Alastor followed his lead, his own eyes landing on the weapon and he backpedaled, stepping hastily away as he shook his head. “I don’t - I can’t ,” he stuttered. Lucifer took a step in his direction, his face taking on a hard edge.
“Tell me whatever you can,” he insisted. “I don’t think you realize what this is, Alastor. If Heaven finds out you have this, I can’t help you. Let me help you ,” he pressed, his own tone taking on an edge of desperation.
Alastor’s smile twisted like he was pained and Lucifer waited with bated breath for him to decide his fate.
“They came to me the night I killed my father. They didn’t tell me who they were - I didn’t ask.” Alastor hung his head, his arms limp at his side and Lucifer desperately wished he could see his face. “I wasn’t aware of the rules at the time - they simply had what I wanted, what I needed , and I took the deal, no questions asked.”
The demon raised his head slightly, enough to cast a look in the chest’s direction. “I was offered power. A chance for revenge both in life and death.” He laughed bitterly and Lucifer swallowed hard past the lump in his throat. “Of course I hadn’t believed in anything after death. Not until I woke up here, but by that point I already had my microphone in hand and a leash around my neck. It was made perfectly clear that just because my mortal life was cut short, that didn’t mean my sentence was over.”
Alastor looked up at him then, red eyes boring into his own as he spoke the final sentence and Lucifer didn’t have to ask what he meant by it. Whoever held Alastor’s deal was still giving him orders. Lucifer had suspected as much - there were far too many coincidences for the possibility to have never crossed his mind, Alastor’s rise to power had been too quick to not have been aided by some preexisting force - but the fact that he had been right didn’t make the sting of knowing any less bearable.
And as with any deal, there was hardly any room for Alastor to speak on the matter. It was a miracle he’d managed to divulge as much as he had to Lucifer already.
“The blade?” Lucifer asked. Alastor shifted, leaning back against an empty spot on the wall as he sighed deeply, feeling the full weight of his exhaustion. “You have to know Alastor, this is no ordinary knife. It’s - “
“Celestial steel,” the demon finished. “I know.”
“Then what the fuck is it still doing here?” Lucifer hissed, all of his worry and stress bursting out of him in a fit of anger.
“I didn’t know I had it,” Alastor defended, red eyes flashing dangerously. “As I mentioned before, the only thing I had when I arrived in Hell was my staff. I thought the knife was lost to the mortal realm. It wasn’t until after the battle that It reappeared and as soon as it did I wanted nothing to do with it. I don’t think I need to explain to you that no one was ever meant to find this place,” he remarked pointedly.
Lucifer pressed a hand to his head, the ache still pulsing through him in regular intervals. “Alastor, I just don’t - “
“No one was meant to find out.” The sinner was looking at him again and Lucifer could see traces of a thinly veiled craziness about his countenance. “Least of all you.”
The king snorted at that, a bitter, mocking sound. “Least of all me? What, does that mean that you were just going to keep lying to me? You were hoping I wouldn’t find out about it? How stupid do you think I am, Alastor? Is this how low, how little you think of me? I could’ve helped you. We could’ve done something - ”
“No , ” Alastor insisted, “ We couldn’t have done anything. I still can’t do anything. Do you truly believe I haven’t tried finding my deal holder? That I haven’t dedicated decades of my life to trying to get myself off of their leash?”
Alastor laughed and Lucifer winced at the glowing stitches that appeared at the corners of the demon’s mouth. He reached a hand out, took a step in the demon’s direction, his instincts telling him to soothe, but Alastor was too caught up in his own agony to take note of the angel’s actions.
“I can’t fix this,” he finally muttered, although mostly to himself. When he pulled his hands away from his head there were tufts of hair caught between his fingers. “You can’t fix me .”
There’s a hollowness inside of Lucifer at the broken admission from Alastor. He clenched his jaw, his mouth refused to speak the words that would make this situation better because in all honesty he had no idea what to say. Alastor was right - Lucifer couldn’t fix this. There was no cure-all for misery and no interfering with deals made between mortal souls.
And he wanted to reach out, to touch and comfort with his hands where his words failed him, but despite the smallness of the room Alastor felt so far away from him. He wrapped his arms around himself instead, his hands curling into fists and it was then that he registered the stinging in his palms.
He didn’t uncurl them. He didn’t need to see them to know how badly mangled they were. He simply clenched them tighter, the sting a welcome sensation that grounded him to the present. The silence sat heavenly between the two of them. Alastor’s hum was faint, popping sporadically in time with his stress and his breathing was loud and unsteady, unlike Lucifer’s - he wasn’t even sure if he was breathing at all.
Truthfully, they were far beyond being okay, but if there was one good thing that came out of the entire ordeal, it was the fact that there couldn’t possibly be anything worse to come from the situation.
That was enough for Lucifer. He could help Alastor - he could and he would . Whether Alastor wanted to admit it or not, he wanted Lucifer’s help, too, otherwise his shadow would have never brought him all the way out here.
All they needed was a course of action. The first step, of course, would be to neutralize the celestial steel. As for uncovering the identity of Alastor’s deal holder, well that process would be a little more complicated. There weren’t many beings in Hell who had that much power to imbue at the drop of a dime, after all, and even fewer who would know about celestial steel. While he might have been out of the game for quite some time, the King of Hell had managed to rack up quite a few favors over the last ten-thousand years or so and there was no better time than the present to cash those in.
So long as they picked their paths carefully, Lucifer saw no reason why they couldn’t find a way out of this. But there was still one thing that didn’t sit quite well with him.
How had Alastor managed a deal with a demon in the first place?
It was rare for demons to make deals with mortals. Hell, it was one of the laws that Lucifer did have control over because it was one of the few that Heaven sided with.
A very long time ago, both sides had come together and agreed that mortal souls should have the opportunity to exercise their free will without interference from either side. Heaven agreed that every soul deserved a fair shot at salvation while on earth. Hellborn and heavenborn alike were allowed to mingle and persuade, but never alter a human soul. There were other exceptions, too, usually in the forms of heavenly messengers and vessels, but throughout history there were the occasional instances where mortals sought out specific demons to make deals with.
And that’s precisely what Lucifer couldn’t wrap his head around. All demons had to be asked for by name by those who summoned them. There was no being under his rule who did not abide by that rule, not without Lucifer knowing about it.
By all accounts it shouldn’t have been possible - not unless it was done by someone really, really powerful, but Lucifer would have recognized any real threat to his power if such a being existed under his rule.
Under his rule - that was just it, wasn’t it? What if whoever Alastor made a deal with didn’t exist under his rule? Based on what Alastor had told him and what Lucifer himself had seen in his memories, no demon had ever been summoned - they just appeared to him. It was as though they knew where he would be and what he would want. It was like they knew Alastor , what he had been through, the things he had suffered and lost, as well as what dark and twisted things they could offer him to lure him into a deal.
Lucifer looked up suddenly, his eyes wide as they zeroed in on Alastor who was still leaning against the wall as he stared at the ground. His heart dropped to the floor as his mind connected the dots at an agonizing pace and he couldn’t help but stare at the man who’d ensnared him so completely, so totally. The same man who rained devastation wherever he went, who had spent the better part of both of his lives haunting and hunting and carving out the hearts of his poor, unsuspecting victims. The same man who donned misery like it was tailor-made for him.
The same man who hadn’t even realized he’d been stalked like prey long before a deal was ever struck.
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