A New Check-In

by LowHangingForbiddenFruit

Summary:

Alastor understands how to make tough choices. The bloodier, the better, he always says! But when he unexpectedly becomes a father?/mother?/parent, the decisions he must make bring him to his knees.

Parenthood is a job Alastor never expected or wanted. Frankly, he has no idea how to do it!

But, hey, at least he has one thing in common with the King of Hell now, right?

Or: it takes a hotel to protect a child from Heaven (oh, look! They are here too. Wonderful.)

Notes:

Welcome! This is a fic I've been pondering on for a few months now and it came alive in a caffeine fueled all-nighter. I've enjoyed editing and re-working it, but it's time to let it fly.

Chapter One T/W:
Graphic childbirth
Birth trauma
body shaming
bullying

Chapter 1

The first pain hits around midnight.

It is really no more than a twinge, which would have otherwise gone unnoticed but that Alastor is on night shift at the front desk. 

Indigestion, he thinks. 

Alastor pats his stomach, regrets indulging in a second helping of liver pate, and returns his attention to Rosie’s latest edition of her treatise You -”Can”-nibal! - Legal Do’s and Don’ts of a Whole Body Diet. 

So, he tries to ignore the odd twists in his belly as the hours crawl by. They are not... pleasant exactly. But it is hardly worth twisting his knickers over. He has a job to do, anyway, and, while not fulfilling, is at least distracting.

Evening desk attendant had become a default role for Alastor of late. 

The prestigious and * according to their beloved princess * the absolutely necessary role of Front Desk Attendant had begun as a practical solution as more and more residents arrived. Someone needed to be delegated to take on the volume of calls (only half of them prank-calls now!), guest check-ins (and, to Charlie’s tearful disappointment, check-outs), and to handle guest requests. Especially given the helpfully placed signs around the common areas of the hotel encouraged such whiny dependency.

 

*Please Share ANY Complaints or Requests at the Front Desk!*

*We are HERE for YOU*

 

Inaccurate. 

Alastor is here for himself. 

Still, the quibbles of the rabble must be addressed.

The position had begun as a 9-to-5 one until a particularly bold guest attempted to find an extra box of tissues in the supplies closet at 2am and discovered why Niffty was Alastor’s favorite little minion. 

Really, all that commotion had been a bit much for a few missing fingers.

So, the evening shift was born. 

Sleep not being an essential part of Alastor’s routine, and after several guest critiques (“Complaints” Vaggie had erroneously labeled them) of his being absent from the desk during his scheduled daytime shifts to attend to his duties as hotelier and preeminent overlord, Charlie suggested he take on 2-3 evening shifts per week. In theory, this was a position shared with Husker and Charlie but their own roles as bartender and crisis-manager, respectively, often (always) required Alastor to graciously step in.

There truly is no rest for the wicked!

The peaceful hours between 9:00pm - 5:00am do give Alastor time to work on his broadcasts, answer soul requests, and keep up with his correspondence, in addition to attending to the stacks of hotel paperwork and the day’s written complaints.

 

CONCERN: Want 2 c AngalDusk nekked 

REQUEST: Sex 

GUEST NAME: Goonth

ROOM: 269

Management Response: Attached is a pamphlet for the Princess of Hell’s grade school equivalency courses. We highly encourage you to attend.

 

CONCERN: I read about using suboxone when looking to get clean when I was alive. I had an appointment at a clinic but ( illegible scribbles ). I want to use bad. Please. 

REQUEST: Please help.

GUEST NAME: Spicer

ROOM: 402

Management Response: Your request has been forwarded to the Princess for personal review. 

 

While writing up a cover sheet for Charlie, a particularly nasty cramp grips him around the middle. It feels like a series of pinches, starting at his sides and squeezing the muscles of his abdomen before settling in his lower back. 

Alastor finds he is holding his breath as it subsides. He swallows down the sour taste of bile. Nausea? Not even after consuming several loan sharks whole had he experienced nausea in the afterlife. Alastor, the Radio Demon, prides himself on being in possession of an iron stomach! A frown creases his brow, and his smile pinches tight at the corners. This reaction - this weakness - is simply unacceptable. He normally does not mind, and in fact, normally welcomes, a bit of pain. 

He is in Hell, after all.

Unacceptable for an Overlord. Simply despicable. Pain is gain, as they say, and the Radio Demon has brought substantial gains to Hell in his time. 

So, Alastor pins a wide grin on his face and raises his eyebrows to smooth out those creases. Radio waves alight with music, landing on a tune that complies with Vaggie’s recent request to play music that is “anything modern” and Charlie’s insistence that he “be true to himself.”

 

When the jazzman's testifyin' a faithless man believes

He can sing you into paradise or bring you to your knees

It's a gospel kind of feelin', a touch of Georgia slide

A song of pure revival and a style that's sanctified 

He taps well-manicured claws against the desk in beat. The volume increases with his appreciation of Mr. Scott’s expert saxophone solos. Truly superb! Why the commoners insist on this new age rap-punk-hip-hop-pop-bobbity gobbledygook is beyond him. Jazz is king.

Alastor’s mood dims when a pair of residents crosses the lobby in search of the complimentary continental breakfast. They wince in unison at a particularly soulful BLAT of Scott’s trumpet. 

One - a porcupine demon that runs through pillows literally and figuratively at a concerning rate - mutters, “Way too early for the tunes, my dude.”

He nods an acknowledgment to them, slowly lifting his lips to reveal the razors beneath, his eyes dilating to pinpricks, just on the brink of snapping into dials. The instrument start playing at half-speed, out of tune, and Ms. King’s voice deepens and distorts

 

play it swEEtly, take me dOoOOowwwn, oooooh JAAAzzmAAAaaan

 

And the lowly sinners…

shake their heads.

“Okay, Mr. Alastor. Reeeeaaal scary. Good morning to you too.” The skunk demon giggles (giggles!) at him.

Humf. Well, he will simply not tell them breakfast will not be served for another hour. There. 

Something about him has changed since the battle with Heaven. His near-death experience and subsequent recuperation have softened him. Both figuratively and literally. The demands of rebuilding the hotel were much more manageable to attend to in those early hours. Not that the Radio Demon would ever confess to it, but with his limited powers while his microphone was out of commission, he had to narrow his movements for his own safety. He had set a trend. Up and coming demons always went for low hanging fruit in the form of injured or weakened overlords.

But then, after his staff’s restoration, he simply did not have time outside of his hotel duties to attend to his overlord schemes.

The sinners started coming and did not stop coming. 

(Alastor will deny until his last breath that he recognizes any references to any popular songs here. But long hours at the desk have left him with time to expand his catalogue) 

(He will also deny the existence of any double entendre in that statement related to the bowls of sheath-shaped barrier devices on every floor)

There are new arrivals each and every shift, others returning for a second or third time (or fourth, or fifth, or sixth or….). Check-ins occurred most commonly in the middle of the night in a place where hope is a weakness and escape is best done in the cover of darkness. While Charlie took over most of the introductions and tours, Alastor found it best he handle the paperwork.

Oh, the paperwork.

There are files to be maintained on each sinner to identify their redemption needs and track progress,  and these were reviewed at daily afternoon staffings (3pm-4pm, like clockwork!), where Alastor recorded the minutes, and, of course, there were the guest requests to be addressed, and repairs to be made, and subsequently the rooms to be modified and cleaned, supervising the burgeoning book exchange program, scheduling individual and group therapy appointments, arranging rideshares to weekly excursions, tallying community service hours, sending reminders to sinners who failed to complete the required 1 hour per month, writing/recording/distributing success certificates, reviewing soul contracts, writing recommendations on soul contracts, coordinating mediation appointments to resolve soul contracts, sending appointment reminders, reviewing and grading sinner assignments following Charlie’s strict rubric, meetings with Husk and Charlie on liquor consumption trends and averages, completing order forms for food and supplies, performing regular inventory checking, preventing theft of said inventory to be sold on the black market, tracking down and intimidating those sinners who have stolen said inventory and sold it on the black market - which, really, is the primary market in Hell, to be fair, and the same suppliers the hotel orders gets substantial mark-downs in products (but Alastor views purchasing the same item twice as a form of inefficiency)...

…and then there were the financials…

They say mistakes are proof one is trying. Well, the Princess of Hell has tried and tried and tried and - 

Alastor had been forced to place a strong ward around the hotel books.

Vaggie - though she denied it at all correlated - brought Alastor a blood tea the next day.

In addition to the many unattractive hats he wears for the hotel, Alastor still has his responsibilities as Hell’s preeminent/only radio host and most prolific overlord! He owns just as many souls as all three Vees combined. Those poor but very fortunate souls need little oversight after the initial deals were struck - or contracts transferred after their original deal-holder had perished at the Radio Demon’s hands - but Alastor did pride himself at least being aware of their doings and continued existence.

The radio show is mandatory for hotel residents. Or, at least, it plays over the hotel’s speaker system. Hotel centered or approved local business advertisements, announcements, and encouragements have replaced the more violent segments his show became known for. He even takes song requests, with more than one evening per week spent sifting through hundreds of increasingly confusing requests.

“The artist’s name on the compact disc is Mr. Eminem, yet I have found several tunes in which he identifies as Mr. Slim Shady or Mr. Marshall Mathers. Then, in a request from this evening, the man professed to be Lucifer! Clearly, this sad soul suffers from a dissociative identity disorder of some nature in addition to generalized psychosis…”

“I simply point out that a tune entitled “To Kill a Hooker,” should spend a touch more time on the titular homicide.”

“What the devil is a WAP?”

“Boss, I’m beggin’ ya, just skip the songs ya don’t like.” 

(The lattermost being Husker's unhelpful response to Alastor’s inquiries.)

Days spent in staffings and attending to hotelier business, then 7:00pm-9:00pm in his tower hosting, then the overnight shift at the desk, and even powerful overlords must get some sleep…

In sum, Alastor spends a lot of time behind a desk these days when he otherwise could be tearing sinners limb from limb around Pentagram City and growing his power wheeling and dealing.

Where was he going with this ramble? Oh, yes! The word ‘soft’ and the many ways the adjective is attributable to Alastor, the Radio Demon, Overlord, and formally TerROr and TOrTuRe personified.

His physical appearance.

Alastor has always been slim, in life and death, even to the point of skeletal. A sedentary lifestyle is simply not conducive to a cannibal’s diet. Sinners - apparently - have a high fat content. Sure, he has gained a few pounds. It doesn’t bother him to have a more generous form. Flesh historically has been an indicator of status and wealth.

Angel assures him it is quite attractive in its own way 

(“More cushion fer the pushin’!”) 

Whatever that means.

If only Vox would stop running “breaking news” segments on the subject! 

RADIO DEMON: HAVE YOU SEEN HIM??? (YOU CAN’T MISS HIM!)

DEMON IS A FAT COW ARD: ALASTOR HIDES IN HAZBIN HOTEL

MOVE OVER BEELZEBUB - RADIO DEMON IS A REAL GLUTTON!!!

GUESS RADIO DEMON S WEIGHT AND WIN WIN WIN

RADIO DEMON: TAILOR SPILLS LATEST MEASUREMENTS - EMBARRASSING!!!

Alastor sighs. His coat needed to be replaced, is all. Torn and stained, a relic of another time, another Radio Demon. Gone are the days of stalking and fun, reduced to recordings and memories. He likely is the only overlord forced to arrange therapy circles and order bulk quantities of powdered cockatrice eggs and death cap cooking oil.

“Come on, Pip. That creeper probably ate it all already. I got some crickets in my room.” 

“Aww, stop! Mr. Alastor is so sweet, once you get to know him.”

The Radio Demon has officially failed to inspire fear in rodent demons.

“Good morning, Al!” 

Too bright, too cheery, and a voice that could only belong to - 

“Charlotte!” He infuses his own voice with crackling energy and folds his hands together on the desk.

“It’s quitting time!” Oh, is he permitted to escape this circle of Hell he is condemned to? Finally. “5 o’clock sharp. On the dot. Punch the clock.”

So, just a turn of phrase. 

How disappointing. 

“The financials could not bear the strain of such property damage, my dear.” 

“That’s not-”

“I will happily take my reprieve.” 

Charlie’s cheery face falls. “Yeah…yes, you deserve a, uh, ‘reprieve’. Shift over. Like I said.” She sighs heavily.

Alastor keeps his sighs internal. “Have you continued need of my services, Princess?” He asks, making an effort to keep his ear from twitching as a heightened cramp catches him by surprise. 

A record scratch cuts through air. 

Pain grips his belly and cascades in lightning bolts down his sides. He knuckles the edge of the counter. He can feel his arms shaking with the strength he puts in, and finds he has burned outlines of his fingers into the counter’s stonework.

Charlie, thankfully, does not seem to notice as she drops a stack of papers between his arms and rambles on.

“These came today and I know we have to make an order and you’ve already been taking care of the guest requests and room mods and I’m sure Niffty has some preferences on cleaning supplies and-”

Wholesale catalogues.

The true punishment of Hell.

“I will be delighted to peruse.” The words come out a bit garbled with his teeth clenched so tight. He can barely keep the static in his head; the pressure builds between his ears. 

Charlie beams and gushes at how AMAZING Alastor is for helping, chirping and squeaking without drawing breath, her body fairly vibrating with gratitude or joy.

But he needs to relieve the static pressure.

Why won’t she leave?

“O-okay. It’s just that it’s my shift. But I can go…?” Charlie tilts her head and gestures a her thumb towards the staircase.

Alastor breathes out, long and hard, the slightest static playing an accompaniment. “My apologies, how rude of me. My mouth runs off before my thoughts at times! I will take my leave, Princess. Ta!” His voice is thick with spherics as he pulls white static back into himself from the air. 

He manifests a pool of shadow to drop into, already dissolving into it when -

“Niff! Ya gotta be shittin’ me! She’s cut another goddamn hole in the wall!”

Scritch Scratch Scritch Scritch…Scuttle…Scratch…..POP…

The lights flicker.

“Heheheheheheee! Strings!” 

“Niffty! No No NO!”

Darkness.

“Nooooooo.” “Uh oh.” “Shit!”  “Oof! Hey! Watch the merchandise!” “I’m walking here!” “DO NOT TOUCH ME YOU PERVERT!” “Owwww, what gives?” “Pfft, your loss, bitch!” clink “Hey hey hey, booze is off limits ‘til five PM!” “Share a lil’ ya fucking drunk!” CRASH!

“Uhhh, Alastor? Could you…”

No rest for the wicked, indeed.

---- 

Charlie is prattling on about Synergy and Core Competencies. Alastor suspects she has dipped into the corporate ladder genre of self-improvement books and wonders if she might reconsider his recommendation of The Prince. Give those sinners the ol’ Machiavellian treatment and they all will fall in line! Redemption in mere hours!

He glances at the clock. 3:30pm. 30 minutes and he can retreat to his radio tower. Or perhaps he will cancel the broadcast for today, call in one of those “sick days” that Charlie has allotted, and rest off this indisposition. 

Tightening pain. Twisting in his belly. Hot cramps straining his muscles.

A violin bow scraps across its strings. A piano builds a music scale. Drumsticks snap on a snare, playing louder and faster as the pain builds with the rising piano scale and the violin trills - 

“Hey, Asshole! Cut the music!” 

A sharp voice cuts through the lyrical fog that had settled over his attention. His record skips - a horrendous scratch tearing at the air as a phantom needle seeks purchase on a non-existent track. His seat neighbors - Angel Dust and Miss Bomb - wince.

Those dulcet tones that could grind peppercorn can belong to none other than their very own friendly neighborhood former exorcist.

“Now, Vaggie.” Charlie says gently. “We are all working on healthy self-expression. Alastor has such a gift and he is so, so generous to share it with us. But, Al, uh, could you maybe wait until after the meeting? I would appreciate it.”

She continues, “So, in conclusion, the numbers are great, Team! We are on track to open up floor six by next month! And, no, a certain number will not be assigned out. My dad already has to visit here enough without being summoned every time a resident uses their key card. Eh-hum, but I am so, so excited to reach this goal! We just need to work a bit harder!” Charlie enthuses.

Work harder?

Alastor cannot help the trumpet blast that causes everyone else to jump.

His stomach hurts. Another pain rides on the coattails of the last and it is the worst yet. Hot, searing, slicing. It is worse than a knife in the back. It is a hundred flaming knives stabbing and twisting in his guts. 

A bead of sweat trickles past the collar of his shirt.

“What the hell!” Angel Dust (who, as Alastor has pointed out many times over, is not a member of staff) shrieks.

“Do you have something to add, Al?” Charlie asks nervously.

Alastor, pain subsiding, narrows his eyes as he widens his grin.

Enough is ENOUGH.

The Radio Demon is no slave. 

Or, to pilfer a Husker wittyism: Alastor has exactly zero fucks left to give.

“Merely that you might consider others , my dear, in your quest for self-fulfillment. Your poorly compensated staff, for example. Or, well, I do suppose they are mine , aren’t they? Ha-ha!” The words crackle out before he can filter out the harsh truth in them.

Charlie’s face crumples in confused hurt.

“Fuck off, Alastor.” Vaggie growled, grinding a knuckle in the palm of her hand.

“Ha! Though I do suppose we all had the unique pleasure of staring our eternal demise in the face! My souls on the line, my very near-death experienced. What fun! How...charitable of you, Charlotte.”

Charlie drops her gaze to the table and sniffles.

Vaggie makes a show of rolling up the sleeves of her cardigan.

(A lovely crimson article draped over a crisp white button down and black vest combo - Alastor would almost have approved had it been not paired with a pair of torn apart jeans and scuffed up combat boots.)

“I’ll kick your fat ass for free.” 

“My, My! Not very angelic of you, hmmmm?”

Vaggie’s grey skin flushes with the heat of her fury. Her remaining eye twitches. The legs of her chair scrap against the floor. 

“NO!” Charlie exclaims over the sound of the chair firmly being pushed back into place. Vaggie, body having been pressed a touch too hard into the table, shoots her girlfriend a glare for her interference. “Alastor, we do not use past trauma as insults.”

Vaggie sticks out her tongue at the Radio Demon.

“Very mature.” He bites back, radio overlay thick in his voice.

“ And, Vaggie, we do not body shame. Alastor is a healthy weight for his, uh, height.” Her eyes betray her nerves as she flicks them at Alastor to monitor his reaction. “But - uh - self-worth is not measured by one's self - I mean, umm, by appearance! Though, I think you look wonderful, Al, you are more…more…more…”

Well, his father did teach him to put wounded critters out of their misery.

He should try to honor him, as the good book says.

“Yet you still feel the need to give feedback on appearances! One really should practice what one preaches.” He cuts her off with a grin far closer to a razor sharp snarl. 

Charlie takes a deep breath. “I am sorry, Al. And I do hear you.” She leans towards him, a picture of empathy, and quickly aborts an attempt to put a hand on his arm. “You work so hard and you give so much to others. I see and I recognize your generosity.” She continues on over his trombone slide of protest. “I lean on you so much because I trust you so much. I trust all of you so much!” She waves a hand across the table. Her paramour puts a hand on her shoulder as she wipes away a tear. “I am so proud of all of you!”

“Aww, Charlie!” “Babe, we are proud of you too!” “Yeah, yeah. Sure. Agreed.”

“Moving on.” Charlie sniffs, wiping at her wet eyes again. “We have a number of insectivores with us now. I thought that if Niffty captured a few bugs, we could create a sort of farm as a breeding experiment. It would cut food costs and better meet our resident’s dietary needs. Niffty, what do you think?” 

The little cyclops blinks once. Twice. Three times.

“More bugs?”

“Yes.” 

“On purpose?”

“All contained in tanks!”

Niffty slams her head into the table. “They cannot be contained!!” She wails and slams her head into the table again. (Twice. Three times.)

“Okay, okay - we can table the idea for now!” Charlie says frantically. 

“BUGS!”

Angel reaches a long arm across the table to pluck the little demon from the air as she flies toward Charlie. She clings to his chest fluff and sobs. The spider awkwardly pats her back. 

“Next on the agenda: Husk has a request! Husk?” 

“Bar needs cameras.” The bartender says, sounding bored and uninvested in his own request. “Some sneakin’ shit’s watering down the booze.”

“No cameras.” Alastor snaps and sends out a shriek of feedback to cut off further argument. 

“We will change the locks on the bar cabinets.” Charlie decides and closes her eyes in tired resignation. “Again.”

Another episode of pain overtakes the Radio Demon and his rigid posture bends ever so slightly. His back is killing him. He groans from the growing agony and hopes that the others take it as despair for the financials. He just needs to push through, is all. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. 

But he notices his breathing has consequences: with each exhale, he transmits a new station through the air waves.

Inhale.

Opera

Inhale.

New Age Rock

Inhale.

Polka

Inhale.

Big Band Jazz

Inhale.

Disco

Inhale.

Bluegrass

Alastor silences the noise by holding his breath. 

“Al, please.” Charlie looks at him, frowning. “Can you please take this seriously? A resident has requested we add an option for medication assisted treatment to help in their battle with addiction. I have requested some literature on it from the Royal Library, but, Angel, if you don’t mind, could you weigh in…”

Another twist in his guts breaks Alastor’s attention. Blood and static rush in his ears. The time frame between the pains is nearly non-existent now, one rolling into the other without relief. . His heart thumps hard against his ribs. White hot spasms radiate through his back. Nausea creeps up his throat. He swallows it down, unable to hold in the gasp as he recovers.

He inhales, long and slow, once more, claws pinching pin-prick holes in the fabric of his tight trousers and pressing into his legs. Not enough to break skin. Just enough to ground him. A static of distraction from the throbbing in his gut, his back, his thighs…

Another wave of pain crashes over him.

He is humming, a grumbling sound low in his throat, and he cannot stop it.

Sweat drips down his temple.

He feels the edges of his smile quiver.

Something is wrong.

“You doin’ okay there, Smiles? You ain’t lookin’ too hot.” Angel squints at him in concern.

Alastor latches onto the insult, latching onto an outlet for the pain, relief in the form of a target . His grin settles. Then it turns wonderfully deranged. The Radio Demon’s head tilts like a broken door on a rusty hinge and his voice booms with sonic pulses.

“Ah ah ah, quite the contrary! You will find I am very HOT.” 

The Radio Demon had ceased toying with the fabric and braced both hands on the table, pulling himself up to loom over the spider demon, coaxing his power to pull his joints apart, the room dims, green flames lick his skin, outlining his silhouette as it starts elongating to become…

His stomach lurches, disrupting his little power display and snapping his joints back in place. Agony. Throbbing, sharp agony. He folds over, arms curled around his middle. His claws do draw blood now as they tear into his back through the lining of his jacket. 

The table is cool against his forehead. 

“Alastor?” Charlie asks with hesitation. 

With effort, he raises his gaze to meet the stares of the others.

Radio silence follows until - 

“Uh, Boss?” Husk raises his brows in disbelief.

“Aww, Smiles!” Angel draws four hands over his wide mouth.

“You're…crying.” Charlie observes faintly. Her head gives a shake and then she melts . “Oh, Al - you’re crying!”

Alastor would deny it but, to his surprise, his hand comes away wet when he swipes at his cheek.

Well.

Well, he outright refuses to allow Little Miss Brightside to see this as a “breakthrough.”

“Pardon me. I am unwell.” He mumbles, preferring infirmity to emotional vulnerability. His gut lurches again, and he barely suppresses the urge to cast up his accounts.

A pathetic whimper slips from his lips.

Not particularly inclined to add vomiting to this already embarrassing display, and ignoring Charlie’s squeak of protest, Alastor rises on shaking limbs and stumbles to the door. He grabs the frame as his legs nearly give out. He tries to force his body into stillness and fails. 

The Radio Demon seeks out shadows to sink into instead. For the first time in Hell, they deny him from their depths. Shadow frantically pulls at his arm in warning. Alastor tries to force his way through anyway, gathering even more shadows to him. Power rebounds off the solid wall of darkness and a green flash of light explodes in the room, knocking several chairs and their occupants over.

Niffty laughs maniacally and claps her hands.

“Again! Again! Again!”

The scenic route it is then.

-----

Each step is a lifetime. 

The demon claws along the hallway walls, gouging out chunks of plaster and wood as he drags himself forward, leaving scorch marks where the bare skin of his face or hands brush. The distance is too far: more searing agony tears through him. Wave after wave of pain. He grits his teeth and swallows his scream, tasting the iron tang of blood when he bites straight through his tongue.

Shadow grabs him by the suspenders and pulls him, stumbling, into the elevator.

The elevator rumbles. Electricity snaps and crackles as the Radio Demon ascends. His power leaks into the small space and battles with the electricity. Photons stretch and snap at electrons, zapping and shocking in return. The gathering static nearly suffocates him. 

He vomits instead.

By the time he wards the door to his room, Alastor is panting. His ears are pinned tight against his skull. Sweat soaks his clothes and the damp cloth makes it nearly impossible as he tears at his tie, his coat, his collar. The fabric shreds as he panics in his need for air. White static fills the room and runs up against the damp humidity of the swamp. It combines into a thick, rolling fog speckled with green and blue static charge.

Alastor sucks it all in anyway, desperate. 

Adrenaline and fear - yes, fear - set his pulse racing. He gags and chokes on electric fog. Sound waves crash into the walls. His body pulses with static energy as he panics. Several shadow tendrils whip wildly around the room. When they collide with the sound barrier, the resulting sonic booms are deafening. He draws them back with difficulty. But, almost immediately, vibrant green light cascades through the air without aim, burning slices through the carpet and furniture.

The Radio Demon is losing control.

Another wave of pain immobilizes him, ending the chaos like a candle doused. Hot agony courses through his belly as the muscles of his abdomen contract tighter and tighter. He moans, more feedback than voice, the sound muffled. His teeth are pressed so tightly his jaw aches, smile more grimace than grin. 

Alastor crumples to the floor. 

Instinctually, he tries to draw his knees up to his chest. There is no relief. He rolls to hands and knees. No better. He emits a needy whimper of feedback into the now silent room. 

Pressure…pressure building…muscles rippling down…down…pushing?

Something is very wrong.

Poison? Possession?

His body is turning inside out. He is being ripped apart. The demon within…the poison… whatever it is is shredding his innards, disemboweling him from within. 

A sound rumbles in his throat. He lets out another low moan. Then he finally screams. The bulbs in his ceiling light and bedside lamps explode. He hears the washroom mirror shatter and the tiles crack along the floor.

Shadow frets around him - circling the walls and ceiling, stroking Alastor’s shoulders as they tighten, holding his hips when an impossibly greater pain rips through him. Its featherlight vibrations against his burning skin are a too brief comfort.

Alastor becomes dimly aware when Shadow grabs his antlers in a vice grip. The demon cranks his neck to an unhealthy angle to stare at the red depths of Shadow’s eyes.

“Help me.” He gasps, his voice strangled and small. 

But his ethereal companion is fading. Alastor sends an angry command to stay. He sinks his claws in Shadow’s arm, earning a silent shriek from his companion. Shadow clings to him, frantic to the end, vibrating in its own terror and desperation, as it turns charcoal, then dove gray, then becomes a wisp of mist.

“Please.” Alastor begs empty air. “Don’t go…please…”

Hot, electrifying pulses surge him to his knees once more and he crawls, desperate, back toward the door. A veritable shower of blood pours out from between his legs, soaking his trousers. He bears down again, unconsciously, and is not surprised that it only adds to the flood. 

He’s dying.

Alastor is dying. 

He will be found in a mess of excrement and blood. Innards torn to ribbons and devoured. Yes, the demon within is devouring his guts. The Radio Demon is being eaten alive from within! The irony is rich as cream and bitter as burnt coffee. How his enemies will laugh! 

Alastor’s muscles contract with an insistent pressure, and lost to instinct, bleating out in terror, he obeys and bears down. More blood. His whole body is drenched in fluids now. He swipes away dripping red locks of hair from his stinging eyes. But there had been relief in obedience. He bears down again, cursing the day he died, and - 

Something is coming. 

His trousers are tight from fluid and…yes, yes Alastor feels something when he cups a hand between his legs. Round and solid. He slices through his trousers with a flick of a claw and then uses both hands to riiiiiiiip the garment asunder.

Blood sprays over his hands as he bears down again. His legs shake with the effort and he falls back on his hands to remain upright. He needs to get it out, that something inside him. Another scream spills from him, no feedback, no static, no screeching record. Just Alastor. His power has deserted him. Alone. He is alone and he is just Alastor, the man who was born to belong nowhere and to no one. More blood. More pain. Bear down. Grunt. More. More. Inhale. Push. Exhale. Inhale. Push. Exhale. Inhale. Scream. Push. He widens his legs as that hard, solid thing breaks through his body. Scream. Blood. Pressure. Push. Pain. Inhale. Push Push Push Push -

Then it all gives way with a near audible pop! 

Something slides to the floor in a slimy puddle.

Alastor drops sideways onto his rear, legs spread, and stares, stunned.

Small…so small. Gray, and speckled with white, bloody gunk. It’s not moving. Quiet. The room is near silent, disturbed only by the hum of faint white noise. It’s not moving. Alastor lays a trembling hand on the small - so small - chest. Nothing. Not moving. It needs to move. Not breathing. It needs to breathe.

With care, he lifts the thing into his arms and presses it into his chest.

Time stands still.

Breathe, breathe, the demon thinks and pretends it is not a prayer. 

It is still. 

Please, it must breathe. Let it breathe, he begs and stops pretending.

It sputters a cough and finally - finally - gives a thin cry. 

Warmth blooms in place of the ice in Alastor's chest. His heart is still racing as he uses a sharp claw to slice through the thick, pulsing cord near the…the thing’s belly. Without a thought - refusing to think - he summons a spark of green flame to cauterize the end of the fleshy stump. He lays the crying thing back onto the soaked carpet. With a second snip of his claw, he cuts the cord as near to his sore nether regions as he dares.

It gives a thin wail of distress. His sore legs scream at him as he stands, wobbling like a newborn fawn, and stumbles to the bathroom. The mirror is indeed shattered, as well as the vanity lights. The only light in the room is the low, red glow his eyes give off and it sparkles in the glass like dying embers. 

The whole suite looks like a crime scene. And not in a good way.

Never mind that now. 

Alastor grabs the pile of towels from the rack. He returns to the room, collapsing back to the ground, and gathers up the mewling thing in a fluffy white towel. Hands still trembling, he gently rubs white and red gunk from its face. The snub nose crinkles. Blurry, beady eyes squint at him.

The little thing is pale, wrinkled, and covered in a sheen of slime. 

Disgusting.

It flings out a limb towards his face but Alastor catches it. It is tiny. Barely the length of his handspan. Two little fingers curl around one of his.

It has pale pink shells for nails compared to his glittering red claws.

With a huff, he tucks the thing’s appendage into the towel with the rest of the body. 

Embarrassing really. To think this scrap of a creature could bring down the Radio Demon. Not dead. Not dying. Just tired, exhausted really. A short nap, a bite to eat, a quick wipe down and he will be good as new! The trousers, of course, will need to be burned. And the jacket. Actually, he should set the whole room ablaze and begin anew. 

The thing stares at him, a deep crease between its brows. Bright blue eyes consider him.

“You may lodge your complaints with the front desk!” He says and gives a manic giggle. He runs a hand over his face as he collects his frayed nerves. To his confusion, his cheeks are streaked with fresh tear tracks. He tries to swallow, his throat not wanting to cooperate.  

Tap. Tap. Tap.

His ears prick at the sound, swiveling in all directions.

He clutches his bundle closer to his ribs. It squeaks a muffled protest.

Tap. Tap. TapTap. TapTap. Tap. 

Protect.

He must protect.

Thump. Thump.

But he cannot do anything.

Protect.

He cannot fight. He cannot defend. He is too weak. He cannot even dip into the deep well of power from his contracted souls. Even the ever present Shadow does not appear at his summons.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Hide.

Any one of his many, many enemies would find him easy pickin’s right now.

Protect.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.

Alastor finds, for the first time in his life and death, he really does not give a single damn about his own survival.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

Safety. Hide. Cover. Safety.

The knocking comes again, more insistent. Louder. 

BANG! BANG!

A muffled voice calls his name.

Protect. Safety. Shadows. Hide.

He clutches the bundle to his chest. His knees tremble as he crawls. There is no possibility he will make it to the swamp. The bed then. He grabs at the coverlet, pulling it down without pulling it off the bed. A barrier, however thin. He gently places his…the…the bundle under the bed. The blanket falls back in place.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Muffled yelling.

Protect.

“Hush.” He croaks to no one and leans his back against the side of the bed. He sways even as he sits. The room is suddenly unbearably cold. 

Click.

The lock flicks over in a poor mockery of a radio dial.

Radio. 

Waves. Alastor, you thrice damned fool, grab the airwaves! Sink into the shadows! Flee! Alastor! ALASTOR

No.

The doorknob turns. 

Protect.

Alastor starts to claw his way towards the door on his aching belly, tearing fistfuls of wet carpet in his progress. He will fight, if he must. At the least, he will be a shield of flesh and bone. He must protect his…the…his…

ALASTOR !

The door opens.

His smile, locked in a snarl, nostrils flaring, is a warning to the intruders. A low-pitched frequency is an audible proof that his powers are recharging by the second. He pulls at shadows, coiling them between his fingers, and sends them to the still standing tombstone radio on his dresser. The dial snick, white static, barely audible, floating to him. He breathes it in. A zap of energy. More power.

But not enough to stand a chance.

“Oh my gosh! Al!”

“Woah! That’s- that’s a lotta blood.”

A tall, suited figure enters the room at a rush.

The low frequency is cut with sharp microphone feedback - an audio manifestation of his instinctual panic. The numbers are against him: 2-to-1 (yes, two voices. He heard two voices). He is too weak to meet an attack head-on even with better odds. The small dose of power already is slipping from him in his buzzing fear. He scrambles backward, low static rumbling in a growl, a dark trail following as his body continues to leak mucous laced blood. 

Protect.

“Hey hey hey.” The tall one - Charlie. Alastor, that’s Charlie - murmurs, her voice calm and pleasant, crouching down towards him. “Al, it’s just me.”

He forces out a long breath. The radio dials in his eyes flicker back to round pupils, even if they are pin-points. 

The fallen angel takes another cautious step forward, ignoring her partner’s hissing protest.

Alastor scrapes together enough power - reaching into the very marrow of his bones - to send shadows swirling around him and the bed. The room glows green. Voodoo symbols - hearts pierced through with swords, criss-crossed lines of protection- scatter across the floor. 

It mewls from beneath the bed. Alastor sends out a wave of sound, snippets of piano and chiming bells, to cover the noise. He growls again and bares his sharp teeth.

The shorter intruder holds up her palms, a gesture of peace, “Okay. Okay. Message heard, loud and clear. Staying here.”

Now, placed between it and the danger, Alastor recalls the energy into himself. He will need it, to stay vigilant through the night.

The room is quiet as a tomb.

“Alastor. Please. We want to help. You are hurt.” Charlie has lowered herself to the floor, apparently unaware of the blood she kneels in. “It is just me, Charlie, and Vaggie. You know us. Let us help.” She stretches out an arm, palm up, offering. “Please, Al. Trust us. Let us help. We won’t hurt you.”

Safe?

The arm Alastor had been bracing himself on against the ground collapses; he is so exhausted that he can barely hear a record skip in response. Charlie gasps but she - now at a sideways angle - does not move. He turns his head and nudges the blanket away with an antler. In the darkness, he spots the little white bundle. 

His heart pounds.

Safe, it is safe here. Leave it here. 

“Come on, Al. Trust me.”

Safe.

His fingers catch the edge of the towel and he pulls it towards his chest. The thing inside snuffles its nose against his shirt. It mewls again - a frustrated sound, searching for something he does not have. 

“Whatcha got there, Al?” Charlie has crept closer.

The mewl builds into a reedy cry. He shifts the bundle, turning it away from the buttons on his shirt.

Radio silence.

Then. 

“Fuuuuuck. Wha- you are seeing this, right?”

Alastor grips the bundle tighter, his heart rate picking up. His ears flick wildly, sensing danger everywhere. Every muscle tenses, poised.

“Charlie, we have to get-”

She cuts herself off when Alastor bares his upper lip again, flashing razor sharp teeth and white gums. The room starts to darken.

“Ah, shit,” The voice hisses.

“Stay back! Let me…Al…Alastor, look at me.”

Golden eyes glow bright at him, begging him to place his trust in their owner. Her hand is outstretched, palm up. His ears lower against his sweat drenched hair as he bows his head, nuzzling his pointed chin into the towel. Charlie - in an act of either bravery or absolute madness - lays a hand on his left ear and strokes a thumb over the wet fur. 

Alastor bleats pathetically in response.

Encouraged, she lays her other hand on top of the bundle, a thumb pulling away the stained towel from its face. It continues to cry thinly.

“Shh, shh. There, there. It’s okay. We’re okay.” She runs a finger along its cheek to catch a silver tear. It turns to suck at her thumb when she strokes along its jaw. “You must be very hungry. Long day, huh? Vaggie - we need goat milk and…hmmm, well, get an eye dropper for now. And more towels. Uh, a lot of towels. And hot water. Oh, and could you please bring that quilt from our room here? And a thin blanket from the supply closet but probably needs to be cut and-” 

“Okay, okay! Babe, I only have two hands!” 

The color of Charlie’s eyes inverts. “Then get help!” She snaps.

The pain returns.

Alastor doubles over with it. He feels the bundle being tugged away and he holds on with all his remaining strength. Too weak, arms shaking with a new rush of fear and adrenaline, he loses the fight and gasps at the physical pain that loss brings him. Warm blood flows down his thighs. Voices shout over his head. Two hands pull his shoulders and press his back against the side of the bed. 

“Breathe, Alastor. Not done yet.”

“No, I can’t-” He starts to explain. 

Pressure builds back in his abdomen. His muscles bear down. But he can’t. He will rip in two this time. He will bleed out. He will fade into the shadows, forever incorporeal. 

And it needs him.

Two hands press on his belly, pressing down. Hard. Another pain and it is done. His body spills its contents easy this time. A rush of blood wettens and warms his thighs. Then…something….something else…no…

“Easy. It’s just the afterbirth. You’re so lucky my folks were hippies.” Vaggie says, managing to hide most of her disgust as she folds that fleshy mass into another towel. “Okay, I need to wipe you down. I’m going to cut off your pants. Bite me and I promise we'll both regret this.” 

Alastor is too tired to even give her a playful snap of his teeth. 

He drifts in and out of consciousness from there.

A crisp towel scrapes against his thighs before someone brings a wet cloth. Another pair of hands wipes away the dry, tacky sweat from his face and neck. Someone else holds a glass of water to his lips, urging him to swallow. A pair of silken pants cover his legs and a folded towel is stuffed between his aching thighs. Two sets of arms lift him into bed, murmuring reassurances when he whines against it. 

Then his hand searches the cool bedding and feedback rings out in panic.

“Nah, none a that. Charlie’s got the kid right over there. See? Just gettin’ some good ol’ goat juice. You take it easy, alright? It’s gonna be fine, Smiles, we gotcha. Ol’ Husker’s out snaggin’ ya a nice chunk o’ meat for a job well done. We’ll keep it raw for ya, Smiles, like I’m thinkin’ -”

“Drop it, Angel.”

“Fine. For now.”

Alastor drifts again, skimming the surface of sleep. But he cannot rest until-

“Here we are, back to your da-…your mo-…back to Alastor.” Charlie lays the bundle - freshly wrapped in a soft blanket and swaddled securely - in the crook of his arm. He curls around it.

“Thank you,” He whispers, voice broken in nearly unintelligible rush of static.

Charlies gives him an answering hum but otherwise says nothing. She does, however, give his ear another comforting stroke. He lets his eyes close again.

Safe.

He finally falls into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter 2

Summary:

Alastor considers the new arrival

Notes:

WOW thanks for all the love! I really am having fun writing this fic. Alastor is my favorite character and I hope I can do him justice.

I am lovvvving the theories already. I'm holding some cards close to my chest BUT I can promise answers...eventually. Be patient and enjoy the ride, my friends.

Please remember when reading this that Alastor is...Alastor. So don't expect lovey-dovey. Here's a mini-chapter!

Alastor meets his sleep quota around 3:00am the next morning. The sky - a lovely shade reminiscent of dried scabs - is about as dark as Hell gets. Heaven’s embassy must be working late to turn its observant light away from its favorite program. Or, perhaps, they are still licking their wounds from last year’s failed extermination.

Good. 

Stay mad.

Turning away from the window - and, oh, he must be in a guest room if there is a window and not the marshy, eternal twilight bayou- Alastor finds he is not alone in bed.

The thing is here. 

Alastor mentally chastises himself. He is a gentleman. His mother raised him better. It is impolite to refer to any intelligent being - even if the measure of that intelligence is still in question - as a thing. He conjures up a notepad and pen.

 

• Being

• Body 

• Entity 

• Whatsit

• Whosit

• Spawn 

• Creature

 

Creature.

Acceptable, at least as a placeholder pending further consideration.

The creature lays in an old fruit crate on top of a crisp white pile of sheets. Charlie must have moved it there sometime in the night. He can see it is awake through the slits between the boards. It is staring at him. Ignoring the twinge of protest his entire muscular system gives, Alastor shifts to a sitting position. The apprehension gathering in his gut as he leans over the crate is, frankly, novel and unwanted.

For Satan’s sake, he is the Radio Demon! He owns countless - to others, of course, Alastor alone knows the total count - souls. He is an Overlord. He is the master of his fate. He chose to spend an eternity in Hell. He signed that inevitability with others’ blood and tears. He is the puppet master pulling the strings. He is in control.

But his pulse and mind still race as he looks at the creature.

Well, Alastor can fake ‘til he makes it with the best of them! He flicks on his signature smile and faces the creature with all the energy of a well brewed pot of coffee. He sucks in a long, lung-filling breath and sends short fanfare of heralding trumpets through the air.

“Hel-lo! And how are you doing this fine morn’?” He chirps in a sing-song voice. 

The creature just stares at him.

Alastor stares back, raising his brows.

The crease deepens between its eyebrows.

Alastor quirks his head.

The creature yawns, revealing pink gums.

Alastor flashes his merriest, toothiest grin.

Its lips smack together, as if considering him, before its expression settles once more.

“It is very rude to stare.” Alastor finally huffs, crossing his arms.

The thing is, while he is not exactly expecting a response, Alastor does expect…well, he does not know what he should expect exactly. Something, surely. 

Sparkling conversationalist it clearly is not. No matter. In fact, better not to have another yapper at this hotel! And it is high time Alastor take the measure of their new guest. Lifting it with hesitant care, unable to shake the feeling he should be asking for permission to do so, he settles the creature on top of his outstretched legs. Hooking a claw under a blanket folds, he unwraps the swaddling. Someone has fashioned a cloth diaper for the creature but it otherwise is bare. Released from its confines, it is splayed out much like a cadaver on a mortuary slab. 

Ten fingers, ten toes. Two arms, two legs. Two small ears, a touch too prominent on either side of its face, pointed at the tips, but only just. Weak blue eyes that cannot focus properly, too large in its pinched face. A thin mouth. It possesses a mere wisp of hair - nonspecifically light in shade - twisted in a single flyaway curl on top of a rather cone-shaped skull. It's gone from its original gray pallor to a shade of yellowish pink. And, overall, it's kind of...ugly.

Actually, it is ugly.

Ugly and fragile, Alastor thinks, glancing back down at those tiny seashell nails. 

He takes a centering breath.

“Let us begin again, shall we?” He does not wait for a response. “My name is Alastor, professionally known as the Radio Demon, Overlord, host of this fine establishment, and a dab hand at the piano to boot! Haha! And you are…” His cheer fades into rustling static as he mutters, “not expected.” 

One tiny arm flings itself outwards. The creature, apparently startled by its own movements, flails against Alastor's legs. He rights it with one large hand, gently drawing the limbs back to the center and holding them there. He can feel the fast fluttering of its heart beneath his fingertips. 

“Indigestion would have been preferred.” He growls, and thumps his head back against the bed frame.

It mewls in return.

“Oh, I am sure you are a perfectly lovely…whatever it is you are. But, honestly, and do try to take this in that spirit of honesty, you were certainly not invited, my dear! Which, as I said before, is rude. You could have - at the very least - provided some notice of your impending arrival.”

Tiny hands paw around his larger one haphazardly. He twirls his index finger and it shifts its explorations to the digit. Alastor curls his finger to cover the whole of the creature’s hand. It gives a squeak that may be in protest or admiration.

“Very well, credit where credit is due. Quite the entrance, I must say! On that, however, it has become apparent that you have been imposing on my hospitality for a number of months now.”

It lets go of his finger in favor of grabbing at its own lips.

Alastor wags his liberated digit as he speaks, “which is, again, very rude of you!”

He collects its hand from its poor attempt at self-consumption. Honestly, without teeth it will get nowhere either in the task at hand or in Hell! He supposes he could - and probably should - drown it as an act of mercy...

The creature begins to whine, a thin, scratchy sound. Hungry, Alastor concludes (and not until much later does he question the speed and confidence with which he reached that conclusion). Charlie has left a syringe and a canister of warm goat’s milk on the bedside table. Alastor suctions up an ounce and lets the creature latch onto the plastic. Patiently, he matches the press of the plunger in rhythm with its shallow suckles.

“I simply point out that I am not predisposed to grant free favors. Take notice that any future actions toward your survival will be added as debts owed.”

It whimpers again.

“Greedy, hmmm? I do allow bargaining.” He suctions up another half ounce of milk. “Very well, you may have the first 24 hours free of charge. Never say I never gave you anything.”

It grunts as it reclaims the syringe like its due.

“There are no hand-outs in Hell.” Alastor warns. “You can hardly expect to be waited on hand and foot.” 

A wet chuffing noise tells Alastor that it is exactly what is expected. 

“There are rungs of power here and all begin at the bottom of the ladder.” He maneuvers the sated creature onto his chest and - not being a complete idiot in the needs of infants - taps its back with two fingers until a satisfactory expulsion of gas emits. Satisfied, the creature settles itself, arms spread across Alastor’s chest,  gripping fistfuls of red silk.

His voice lowers to a vicious static hiss, “you can never show weakness.”

It is erroneously unconcerned, eyes already closed. Alastor rolls his own. He is playing the fool. There is no useful advice he could give, even if it could be understood. This creature is near helpless in a land of nightmare and torture. The very air is poisonous sulfur. The rain is acidic. Hell, Alastor once saw a flower devour a sinner whole. A daisy, at that. Nature will dispose of this creature before any sinner has a chance.

Alastor supposes nature has no moral qualms if he consumes it…

Then, its face angled towards his own, the creature gives him a smile. 

It is a sharp thing, with the corners poking up at alarming angles and pink gums on full display. Its whole face brightens with the movement. A pointed jaw becomes more pronounced as skin pulls taut with the smile. Near non-existent eyebrows fly skyward and the corners of its lids crinkle. 

Alastor’s own trademark grin is frozen on his face. 

“Oh.” His ears pull back and he sags against the headboard once more.  He catches a string of frequency before it escapes and he shivers with its vibration. None of that now. He must remain calm and logical. White noise crackles in the air as he attempts to organize his racing thoughts.

It is entirely logical, of course, predictable, at least, or, well, it is of a scientific likelihood, no, a near certainty, ah, that Alastor would spawn a…a… that if Alastor did ... well, it appears as though he has spawned, irrefutable really, more than just in appearance but also in reality, and of course, he is only observing an observable fact, an objective one, and that observable, objective fact is that spawning - oh, Alastor decides he does not like that verb here - okay, that his, uh, part in reproducing - well, he supposes any reproduction, not just his own recent efforts or, well, his recent success at, well, reproduction but here he will narrow his consideration to his own situation - ahem, that reproduction might possibly result in progeny (and that may be a bit formal here, but meets the definition nevertheless) with characteristics that, well, maybe not quite characteristics but perhaps traits, or at least physical features…

*Deep breath*

It would appear the child bears some resemblance to Alastor.

He flickers his eyes over its features again. Yes…he can see it even now that the child’s wide grin has softened into a thin cupid's bow curve. Several features are undeniably a match to his own. The chin. The jaw. The mouth. All his.

His.

Alastor traces the profile of the little face with the blunt side of a red claw. 

“In my own image. Hmmm, what else might you have inherited, I wonder?” He murmurs and resists the compulsion to float a recording of his own manic laughter through the air. No need to disturb the little one after all his talk of rudeness. “And I suppose the subject of debts owed can be negotiated at a later date.”

A smell wafts up to Alastor's sensitive nose. Just a whiff, nothing truly distressing, but identifiable nevertheless as a soiled napkin.

Speaking of ‘debts owed.’

Alastor’s grin twists wickedly as he tugs on Husker’s chain.

Chapter 3

Summary:

A bit late this week. My hopes for this chapter were a bit ambitious and I finally had to make the decision to cut it into two parts - but the good news is that the next chapter is basically written! My plan (and plans were meant to be sabotaged) is to post part two of chapter 3 (so, our new chapter 4) on Friday/Saturday, get a short chapter five (short but powerful, hehe) in on Monday/Tuesday and work on posting chapter 6 by next Friday/Saturday

We are rocking and rolling, folks!

Please remember: Alastor is going through it. And he is in Hell for many reasons (most of them decomposing in a Louisiana Bayou).

Enjoy!

Notes:

T/W:

Body dysmorphia
Birth trauma
Post-Partum struggles
Mentions of infanticide
Bullying (canon typical)

In daylight proper - crimson filtered light bathing the room in a lovely pink glow, much like diluted blood - Alastor is far less confident in his ability to manage the child. 

It positively wails upon waking that morning. Alastor acknowledges, with irritation, that its lung capacity has improved tenfold in the span of three hours. Another demon might be proud of their spawn’s progress. 

Alastor resists the urge to put a pillow over its fragile body.

Milk. Infants like milk. It worked last night. When the greedy little thing sucked up 4 ounces, Alastor thinks it does the trick again.

Unfortunately, Alastor’s luck ran out many years ago in a bayou on the outskirts of New Orleans. 

It spits up that morning’s offering of goat’s milk down Alastor’s front. 

Twice. 

Radio stations scan through distorted music and garbled static as the demon starts to panic. The child’s face turns a mottled red in its indignant fury. Its tiny hands curl into fists. He places it back in its makeshift bassinet. The pitch of its cries gives his own stressed frequency a run for his money. He picks it back up. It starts to hyperventilate with a renewed intensity of its cries.

He puts it back down.

It screeches.

He picks it up.

“Let me try.” Charlie - beatific half-angel that she is, thank Satan - swoops in on non-existent wings. She wrangles the stiff, screeching infant against her chest, wincing as her ears are assaulted. “Okay! Okay! It’s okay! 🎵🎵 Lalalalala laaaaa lalalala laaaaa! 🎵🎵” 

This off-key warble does nothing to soothe Alastor’s nerves. 

“Take a shower.” Vaggie orders from the door. 

Rude.

“Did you neglect to pack a set of manners when you extended your visit to Hell?” He asks, nose flaring as he realizes, even as he speaks, that he smells. His hygiene is never anything less than impeccable, with only ever the faintest trace of decomp on his breath when business is booming. “Though a wash would not be wasted time, I suppose.”

“Self care is important!” Charlie shouts over the wails of the screeching banshee in her arms.

Alastor gingerly pushes himself from the bed. His legs are surprisingly sturdy. The throbbing pain and trembling nerves are fading memories in his aching muscles. Sore, but tolerable. Three crimson piles on the washroom vanity - two being clothing and one a stack of fluffy bath towels - answers a question he had not thought to ask. 

“Take it slow.” Vaggie orders, following him to the washroom door and leaning against it, arms crossed. “There is a chair there.” She points to the shower where, indeed, a chair had been placed. “If you slip, we are sending Angel in. He volunteered.” Her eye looks heavenward as she shakes her head. “Don’t take a bath. Or do. I don’t care. I’m not dealing with any infection in your junk. Clear?”

Alastor sniffs, “Crystal.” A pause. “Um, Vaggie? A word, if I may?”

She looks away, her expression deepening into a scowl as her torso curls tightly in on itself. “What?” She snaps.

“Last night,” he turns away as well, “was not my finest hour.” 

“Oh, uhh, don’t mention it.” She unfurls an arm to scratch the back of her neck. 

Alastor nods, once, “My point precisely.” He gives her a meaningful look, flicking his eyes towards the bedroom until she takes the hint and leaves.

The crash of the hotel’s magnificent water pressure against the tiled shower floor, combined with the echoing hum of white noise, covers the horrid screeching in the other room. Alastor strips with care. The towel between his legs is stained with blood - old based on the dark burgundy shade. The sensitive skin of his inner thighs is dark and crusted with it as well. 

His reflection in the mirror catches his eye. 

When Alastor manifested as a prey-type demon, he had taken it to be a sort of cruel cosmic play on the old biblical verse. That divine intention for the wolves to feed with lambs and all that nonsense twisted in a demonic pantomime. In this kingdom of Hell, this endless dark, so far from anything divine, the lambs do feed with the wolves, for they all devour flesh and bone with equal delight. 

And, should the wolf turn his back, the lamb shall feast on him.

Alastor accepted his form with an appreciation for irony. He relished thwarting expectations until his reputation preceded him. Alastor, the hunter. Alastor, the predator. Alastor, the monster waiting in the dark.

The Radio Demon.

Now, in this mirror within a hotel held together by pipedreams and delusion, he looks too much like prey. Wide, wild eyes. Shoulders hunched in. Hair askew and ears pointed sideways. The proportions of his very body are all wrong! Gone are the sharp angles and clean lines of a lean frame. Nor is he pleasantly plump like a fat cat awaiting his next meal. He is…saggy. His skin looks - and feels - too loose. Like he is wearing a skin suit a size too large. A half-empty pouch distends from his gut.

His smile is very nearly straightened out, no sharpness to it at all, with an appalling amount of vulnerability.

It is all wrong! HE is all wrong!

Steam blurs his reflection until he disappears entirely in the fog. 

Alastor vows the weak, pathetic demon in the mirror shall remain trapped there.

Rusted red blood circles the shower drain as Hell’s sulfur-tinged water cleanses him. He takes meticulous care of his nails, scrubbing them until they shine. The soap here is not his own moisturizing blend, but he scrubs every inch of his skin and fur thrice over. The heat of the never ending supply of scalding water - an often overlooked feature of Hell - seeps into his aching joints and soothes his nerves. 

Under the molten spray, he sinks onto the chair, resisting the urge to be obstinate for obstinacy’s sake, and puts his forearms on his thighs, letting his head rest on his knees. The stretch is wonderful on his back and shoulders.

Without warning, he feels a rush in his chest. And not a “rush of emotion” or “rush of fear” or any of the like. It is a physical rush through his pectoral muscles. Like the flow of blood through an open wound or cold drink coursing down one’s throat. But it is...it is the oddest feeling…it…

No.

No no no no.

Absolutely not.

Alastor straightens with such speed it spins his too light head. He grabs his chest with both hands. Flat. He sags in relief, breathing hard. Small mercies. But, a bit for further confirmation and also to appease an ingrained morbid curiosity, he squeezes the barely there pecs and…

He can pretend it is a trick of light on the water. 

“Fuck me.” He groans and folds over again like a broken marionette. 

It takes a bit for him to rally back from that.

Even Overlords may be allowed small breakdowns in these trying times.

Alastor is raw and tingling by the time when he emerges from the shower into the clouds of wet, heavy fog. 

He towels with equal rough treatment of his person. It all must be left in this room, the insecurity, the vulnerability, the shame. He will be stronger for it all. This is Hell and there is no room for weakness. Alastor the Radio Demon must take control once more. He cannot allow his empire to crumble from within. All of Hell must see him for the threat he is. He cannot be challenged. 

Protect.

The breath he takes in may shudder but it is deep and filling. 

The Radio Demon dresses in a mix of the two outfits on the vanity: a shirt and vest combo from last year (a touch snug), a pair of trousers freshly pressed from this week’s dry cleaning (a touch more loose than preferred), and his old pinstripe coat. He summons his staff. His spine pops as he forces it into alignment so every inch of him is sharp. From the cherry toes of his polished boots to the ink dipped tips of his ears, his edges are sharpened. 

Untouchable.

He flashes a razor grin at his reflection.

Showtime!

After all, the world is a stage, and a stage is a world of entertainment!

But, when he opens the washroom door with a flourish, he finds no audience awaits.

Protect.

The buzzing between his ears leaks into the air. 

Click click click click  

He tries to think but he cannot latch onto a signal. 

Click click  

The fragile fabric of reality shivers around him. He swallows and forces his eyes to hold their shape. But the floor warps under his feet and he tumbles to his knees. Not under the bed - even with his sliver of vision he knows it is not there. He covers his own ears against a tidal wave of static around him. The bedside lamp flickers, a green beacon in a sea of white noise and buzzing buzzing buzzing buzzing.

Click

Buzzzzzzshhhhhhhhhbuzzzzzshhhhhhhhbuzzzzshhhzzzbuzzzshhhbuzzzzzzzzzzshhhhhh

Click  

Buzzzzzzshhhhhhhbuzzzzzzzzshhbuzzhhhhbuzzzzshhhzzzbuzzzshhhbuzzzzzzzshhhhhh

Click click clickclickclickclickclickclickclicklickclickclickclickclickclickclicklickclickclickclickclick

His arm is nearly ripped out of its socket as two hands yank him upwards. His snarls dies on his lips and he grips his assailant upon recognition. Shadow, manifested at last, jerks him toward the door. Yes, a door. That has been there the whole time, hasn’t it?

Well that would have been quite embarrassing, had it been any being but Shadow.

“Where?” Alastor hisses and rushes through the shadows before his companion finishes the answer.

----

Had Alastor managed to pull even two fragments of thought together to open an unlocked door, he could have tracked his quarry by sound alone. The angry screeches have become even more ragged in his absence. It echoes through the empty lobby of the hotel. Alastor is quite certain it is echoing down every hallway of the hotel and, perhaps, children’s nightmares for all eternity. 

They are in the lounge just off the lobby. A proper party of misfits and losers. Circling around it like cultists at an altar. Talking loudly to one another. Passing the child as if any one of them had the right to hold it. As if any of them had the right to take it from him.

And how many condemned souls does it take to piss off a Radio Demon? 

By his count, between one and four.

But best to double check one’s work.

Alastor - deprived of his grand entrance in more intimate settings upstairs - releases all the bells and whistles now. Several bugles announce his arrival. Green fireworks sparkle in his wake. Canned applause crackles in the air. And Alastor himself, the main attraction, extends his arms wide before dipping his staff to point at Vaggie, the apparent winner of the group’s little game of hot potato.

Enjoy your prize.

“Hel-woah!”

Unfortunately, Alastor’s impromptu program of vengeance à la witty sarcasm and cutting remarks is interrupted by a second - well, third if one counts Alastor’s high shriek of frequency - squealing creature in the room.

The Spider Demon rushes over -

- and steps over Alastor’s tangled form.

“Nuggsie! Babesy! Come out!” Angel attempts to coax the hell pig out from under the couch, ass in the air far too close to Alastor’s mouth for safety’s sake.  

Charlie wraps an arm around Alastor, guiding him to a plush armchair before he has the chance to snap at the easy target.

“Al! Are you okay? How are you feeling? Hey, you should be upstairs resting, Mister! We got this.” Charlie assures him, but her chipperness has an edge of desperation. She steels herself with another deep breath. “We got this!”

He glances at Vaggie and the - still wailing - bundle in her arms.

“Clearly.” 

Alastor’s expression gets as near to a dead pan as possible with an eternal smile.

“And, to address your inquiries, my dear, in order: One, I am fine; Two, I am fine; And, three, as to your recommendation: No, I am fine.” He flicks a finger up to count each number. “Though your consideration, an apparent rarity in this locale, is exemplary, my dear! We can only hope the poor sinners in our care can learn from example in their prolonged attempt at redemption.”

Angel has the grace to look ashamed as he emerges from the couch, hell pig cradled against the fluff of his chest. 

“Sorry, Smiles!” He grins sheepishly and then winks. “Y’know how it is. Freakin’ out over our babies.”

“I haven’t the faintest, my effeminate fellow!” Alastor taps a gloved finger to his chin.

“Sure rushed down here fast enough.” Husk - too bold, for a spineless loser - mutters to their resident fallen angel.

Any response outside of maniacal cheer would be a show of weakness this morning. Yesterday was too raw, too revealing. No, weaker demons let their hackles rise at the slightest provocation. Alastor has been above petty squabbles for years. 

He floats a bit of music through the air, mostly to distract himself.

𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮 Just put on a happy face!

And if you're feeling cross and bitterish

Don't sit and whine

Think of banana split and licorice! 𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮

Charlie interrupts Mr. Van Dyke, slicing through the radio waves as she stretches her arm out in a wide gesture, “Al, we just want you to know that we are here for you.”

 

We are HERE for YOU!

 

“Of course you are!” Alastor says cheerily. “My own band of entertaining misfits! We could take this show on the road! But, alas, I find myself with my hands full, of late or….” He makes a show of looking at his empty hands. “Oh, perhaps I don’t.” 

They stare blankly back at him in silent confusion.

Well, except for the still crying child.

Alastor gives Vaggie a pointed look, tilting his head without breaking his gaze, spreading his fingers even wider.

Nothing.

It is unlucky none of them managed to board the Titanic. It would have sunk long before the iceberg from the density of their skulls alone.

One final clue: he holds out his arms.

He will slaughter them all if they make him ask for it…his own…his - 

“Right, sorry!” 

The jittering static in his chest melts away as the angel lays the child into his arms. Alastor carefully tucks it into the crook of his arm, encouraging the little head to rest against his chest.

Safe.

Wet, unfocused blue eyes blink lazily at him.

“Woah.” “Thank fuck!” “Sweet heavens.” “Oh, Al!”

The crying has stopped.

Alastor raises his eyebrows at his captive audience. 

“And for my next trick - I shall make you all disappear!” He pauses for effect. “Worth a try.”

“Oh you!” Charlie giggles and whispers. Loudly. “Aww, already sleeping! All tuckered out.”

“Those lungs sure got a workout.” Angel puts four hands on his hips, appearing to think hard as he works out his next words. “All dis talk ‘bout a workout. You done any stretch’ lately, huh? Like in the last nine months or so…yer legs, maybe…”

“Wow, that was a stretch, Angel.” Vaggie says, disgust evident in her voice.

Alastor does not miss the look she shares with her partner.

“But, Alastor, if you are willing to share how…” Charlie’s eyes widen, having apparently startled herself. “I mean, not how but what . No, not what but how no… ah ha ha ha.” She ends this embarrassing show by rocking on the heels of her boots, pointedly avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room.

Her girlfriend and Husker wince in sympathy. The Spider Demon’s smile gleams with amusement, his gold tooth full on display. 

“Charlotte, I believe you will find it is none of your beeswax!” But Alastor, perhaps softened by the gentle rise and fall of the child’s breathing, throws her a bone. “The long and short is: I haven’t the foggiest. This supported by the small factoid that I too was quite unaware of our new guest until just prior to you breaking and entering into my quarters.”

She takes the bait.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Al! We were so just worried -”

“Uh, Charlie - we helped him.”

“But medical consent is - “

“Babe.”

“Your hair is soooooooo pretty curly.” 

Alastor, having sensed the little cyclops' approach before she spoke, does not participate in the group activity of jumping in surprise. 

The Spider Demon visually perks up, squeezing the hell pig in his sudden excitement and earning a pitchy sqweeeeee as it escapes back under the couch.

“Oh yeah, Niffs?” He practically glows with interest. 

Husk, an antithesis to Angel’s enthusiasm, informs Alastor, “Hair’s wet, Boss.” 

Oh.

Alastor sniffs.

“That does tend to happen when one elects to wash one’s body, and not simply with one’s tongue, dear Husker.” He sends a bit of power through the damp - barely spiraling - locks and it settles into his usual stick-straight style. “Pondering it, is that why you insist on drowning yourself in liquor? To improve the taste? Inquiring minds want to know!” He sends a cackle of canned laughter through the airwaves. “Perhaps a recipe to add to my cookbook: marinated sinner!” Yes, that one is worthy of a crisp BaDumTsk! followed by another round of canned laughter

A glance - barely more than a flicker! - down assures him that the child is not disturbed by his antics.

The bartender waves off those comments, without rancor.

“Glad yer feelin’ better, Boss.”

It sounds sincere.

Alastor does not even get the chance to tease him for it.

“You think a lot ‘bout Husk’s bod or somethin’, Smiles?” And the Spider Demon…twitters? Chitters? Hisses?

Well, a new development indeed. And not just for that curious little sound.

“Not me, Ange.” Husker says, voice barely a grumble. 

And the plot thickens! Eh. A rather predictable twist. 

Alastor laughs, “HA HA!” Then deadpans. “No.

The Porn Star brightens once more, and drapes himself over the back of Alastor’s chair. “So, who is the daddy, Smiles? Who got ta take all this for a ride? I gotta say, tentacle porn might be outta fashion, but ya kno fads. Always goin’ in and out. In and out. In. And. Out.” He emphasizes with exaggerated thrusts of his hips against the arm of the chair.

Alastor thinks even Hell's good little princess would bend the hotel rule about homicide on the premises, just this once. 

“Charming.” Alastor chirps.

“You gotta tell us, Alastor.” Vaggie demands.

“Oh, do I 'got-ta'?” Pity his hands are occupied. A physical demonstration of air quotes would have been delicious. Instead, he slides a sweet, appealing smile to the princess, his would-be defender in his time of need, and she practically melts.

“Oh no you don’t you shit-” “I vote wit’ our sweet Vagina on this one!” “Do NOT call me-” “Respect my bound-ar-ies!” “Someone shoot me.” “Ohhhhhh Me me me-” “"𝅘𝅥𝅯R-E-S-P-E-C-T 𝅘𝅥𝅯 ” “Charlie!” “Charlie!” “But can I stab you instead?” “Char-lie!” “Babe!” “heehehehehehee”

Charlie claps her hands three times.

CLAP CLAP CLAP.

The others in the room - Alastor excepted, hands otherwise occupied and his self-respect intact - respond reluctantly.

 

clap

 

clap

 

“Okay! Alastor is allowed a little privacy in his sex life. We will all respect that. Right? RIGHT?”

“Uh huh!” “Whatever.” “I need a drink.”

But Vaggie stands her ground. 

“And when his baby daddy breaks down our front door demanding visitation?” Vaggie asks, arms crossed. “Remember his little friend and her much larger, violent friends? And his Cannibalistic Overlord bestie? He has a type, is all I’m saying, Charlie.”

“Puh-lease.” Angel stretches out on the couch, one hand trying to grab the Hell Pig still beneath. “Smiles probably ate ‘im as a post-nut snack. A new meanin’ to eating out.”

"Angel.”

Prevented from committed a homicide, Alastor becomes an observer at this point. 

Voices talk around him. Charlie prattles on about the books she has borrowed from the Royal Library. Parenting books. There is a discussion on locating an organic supplier of goat’s milk, acquiring some bottles and more cloth diapers, making an appointment with “Aunt Bel”. Vaggie grabs a clipboard at some point, writing down her partner’s rambling list with obvious indulgent affection, while Husker and Angel pass a flask between each other.

Alastor cannot focus beyond that. He, the Radio Demon, obsessed with details and technicalities for decades, is distracted. The child’s mouth has curved into the faintest hint of a smile - now the dull shape of a butter knife - in its sleep. Panic rises again within him, flooding his brain. His skin prickles with chilled static and it travels into his chest cavity, constricting his breathing. He closes his eyes and leaks some of the pressure into the air. It whines around him.

“Boss?” 

“What?” Alastor snaps - no, literally, snaps his jaws - at the Cat Demon. His voice is so laced with feedback the ‘word’ can barely be identified as such. 

The child startles and adds its own distorted pitch to the mix.

Radio?  No, merely the cries of an infant. Or are they? Does it…

“Hey hey hey.” Charlie in front of him in an instant, swooping in, taking it - taking it! - from his arms. His frequency screeches in warning. But she is already moving away. Taking it away. “Al, you don’t look so good. I mean, you look…hungry?” She rocks herself back and forth, holding the child to her own chest. 

Alastor bristles when he sees the child settle in her arms. 

Irrational. 

Perhaps he is a touch famished…

“Yes, my dear, a meal may be in order.” He agrees, arranging his features into a cheery image of complacency. “Hmm, I suppose the child would be sufficient as a starter…” 

Four appalled faces stare back at him. Ha, he even flapped the unflappable cat! Charlie takes another step back as Vaggie steps in front of her. Only Niffty maintains her maniacal smile.

“I merely jest! So serious!”

“Not funny, asshole.” Vaggie mutters. 

Tough crowd.

Within minutes, Alastor is happily devouring a bowl of cubed venison. It is so fresh that rich ruby red drops cascade down his fork. The iron tang of blood is an aphrodisiac on his tongue. Truly, this simply prepared dish could give any of those 5-pentagram rated restaurants in the Gluttony Ring a run for their money! Not that Alastor, as a sinner, could frequent those locales.

(Ring Dash is abhorrently expensive, even for an Overlord of his wealth and status.)

“You should get liver.” Angel Dust says, managing to swallow down his obvious revulsion of Alastor’s choice of cuisine as he munches on a bowl of processed, sugary sweets.

“I never liked liver and onions as a kid.” Charlie says thoughtfully. Somehow, she acquired an actual bottle and is now encouraging the child to drink another round of goat’s milk. “But it would help balance out the finances if Uncle Ozzie comes through with our formula order from Earth. He said even I might need to “sell a few pics” once I saw the cost.” She giggles. “And then begged me not to tell my dad he said it!”

It is the first time Lucifer has been mentioned since…

“I’m sure the photos will look lovely, dear.” Alastor says absently.

“No, I’m not… you know, nevermind.”

“Nah, not for us. For Smiles.” Angel says, returning to the subject of liver. Being a demon with a metabolism faster than the speed of light, he shoves handfuls of sticky sweet candy in his oversized gob without pause. It coats his teeth as he speaks. “On the ups, my pop’s dog, Dollie, got knocked up by the mutt down the street. Ma fed ‘er liver afta the birth to help wit’ the blood loss.” 

“Sounds about right. Alastor is a bitch.” Vaggie quips from her perch on the couch’s arm.

The two share a high five, entirely too self-satisfied. 

“I will add it to this week’s order.” Alastor agrees, refusing to rise to the bait. He is suddenly exhausted.

“Weeeeeell.”

“Charlotte, have mercy on an old soul’s dead heart. What precisely is it now?”

“You’re on maternity leave.” Her sullen girlfriend answers instead. Tone closed against any negotiation or argument. 

A record scratch rents through the air. Alastor reaches through the ether to right the needle. There is no helping the static now; he is too frazzled.

Keep smiling!

“I’m on what now?”

“Leave. From working. Six months. This ain’t America, Alastor: you get maternity leave when you pop out a kid.”

Alastor blinks, “I am the host of the hotel.” He says, his smile small and confused.

Charlie gives him a gentle smile in return, “And you still will be. Just…Al, this is a lot. You have worked so hard. Too hard. Just as you said yesterday. I mean, Al, you didn’t even know …”

“This is absurd-”

But she cuts him off.

“I am the owner of the hotel.” She straightens, adjusting the bundle in her arms with a natural grace, “I have made the decision.”

Poor timing, for Alastor at least, for her to grow a backbone.

Alastor bristles, static covering his form in near visible spikes, “And you expect me to do what exactly? Rot my brain staring at the picture box? Reread the books in this establishment's pitiful library? If you think for a moment I’m going to spend six months nurturing it, you are woefully, tragically mistaken.”

“It?” Charlie whispers, confused.

Alastor rolls his eyes and gestures with an outstretched hand to the bundle in her arms. Honestly, he is certain the girl has some undiagnosed attention disorder but this is another level of willful ignorance.

“You mean the baby?” She sounds…sad. “Al, ‘it' is your baby.” 

Which, though Alastor admires a simple argument, is just a statement of fact.

“It may have grown through a parasitic dependency on my person, but I will not nurture it. I will not mother it. If I must call in our favor to -”

“Oh, Alastor.” Her lower lip wobbles. She hiccups wetly. Tears gather at the corners of her eyes - 

annnnnnd she's blubbering. 

If she cannot quiet down, it will start up with that damned shrieking again.

“Your stupid psychopathic brain might not, like, get this, but you can’t just call a baby ‘it’.” Vaggie scolds dryly. 

“Fine. I can continue to perform my duties despite him and will not permit myself to be put aside because of him.”

Silence. 

Alastor’s grin is sharp.

The rest exchange glances. 

They look at Alastor. 

He maintains his expression, unblinking.

They look away, all in different directions. 

Angel Dust starts whistling, trailing off at Vaggie’s pointed scowl.

Charlie is finally brave enough to break the silence. “So, umm, we all know gender is a social construct and a spectrum but, uh, you know that she’s a girl, right?” 

Alastor can feel the smirk slip at the edges as a dusting of rose scarlets his cheeks.

No. No, he had not known. It had been covered. He covered it. It was slimy and chilled on the wet carpet, covered in fluids. He had to cover it. Did he notice? …When would there have been time to notice? Alastor was more focused on the fact that it was not breathing and, no, “gender” had not mattered when he thought…when it could have been…

Then Charlie had taken care of the diaper changes (shooing a drunken, confused Husk away at the door earlier that morning when Alastor beckoned him) and…it has not even been a day! Most of that time Alastor was dead to the world, recovering from the unique displeasure of having another being claw its way out of his body.

No, recovering from forcing another being from his body.

Alastor did the all the hard work.

As usual.

“It has been a super weird day.” Charlie says softly. “Don’t worry about all that now, Al. We’ll talk when we have a better idea of what is needed. Go rest. Please.”

Though is said kindly enough, the order is clear in the finality of her tone. At another time, Alastor might have regretted his part in encouraging her to be more assertive in her role as owner and manager of their fine establishment. But he is just so, so exhausted from it all.

Alastor adjusts his suit, composing himself in the face of humiliation.

Humiliation made worse by the pity on the faces around him. 

He prefers his enemies' laughter, enjoys it even, especially if it is cruel. He can attack mockery. He can correct underestimation. He can rip apart smiles at their edges and tear out vocal chords. 

But not pity.

So, like the frightened child he once was, Alastor flees into the darkness.

Chapter 4

Notes:

This one went live for an hour without the last few paragraphs. It still made sense but it cut out some Radio Demon fun that I refuse to cut. So, no, we did not end on Sassy Angel. We ended on Sassy Alastor.

I'm going to blame my excitement on THAT ADORABLE FUCKING REVEAL VIDEO.

Enjoy that freaky red guy everyone is into ;)

At ten years old, Alastor, in a fit of cold pre-adolescent rage, committed his first act of violence against an authority figure.

His tutor at the time - a retired schoolmaster from Harrow School in England escaped to the South under suspect circumstances - had been enlisted by Alastor’s mother’s husband to “deal with the boy.” In either excess of his authority, or - more likely - precisely meeting the expectations of Alastor’s mother’s husband, the Schoolmaster attempted to force a perverted version of fagging upon his charge.

Fagging was a traditional practice at British public schools, in which younger boys would act as personal attendants to the elder boys, who themselves had once fagged for their elders. The severity of the servitude ranged between humiliating to downright abusive. However, being an only child, there had not been an elder boy for Alastor to serve in the Holloway household. 

But the Schoolmaster saw obedience as the key to a child’s education.

One morning, not long after the old drunkard arrived at the Holloway Plantation, Alastor entered his schoolroom to see a large dark-skinned boy sitting in his seat. He was a son of a field hand, Alastor recognized, and wondered what exactly the schoolmaster knew of the dynamics within the Holloway Plantation.

The boy smirked and propped two bare, dirty feet on Alastor’s meticulously written essay on Herod’s use of divine characters as allegorical tools representing the effect of natural forces on war.

“You shall follow this young man’s orders today, tomorrow, and each day until I say otherwise. Understood, Mr. Dubois?” 

Alastor nodded, brow creased and quick mind working.

“I’s your master, got it?” The boy - unnecessarily given Alastor’s confirmation moments before - sneered, anticipation palpable. 

Reflecting on it, years removed, Alastor could not fault the boy for taking an opportunity to rest in the cool shade of the Big House, to be served upon by the spoiled son of the house. The early summer sun already was murderous in its heat. Planting had started late in the season, and the hands worked late in the night without complaint to avoid the bite of the whip. 

But Alastor outmatched his would-be “master” without much effort. He manipulated the orders at each turn, deliberately misunderstanding them, subverting the other boy’s will with gentle suggestions, delaying humiliating or physically laborious demands until his “master” simply did it himself or retracted his request, sometimes asking so many clarifying questions he could almost see the larger boy’s head near spun in confusion. 

Returning later that morning - by this time well on his way to stumbling drunk, as was his habit - the Schoolmaster flew into a rage at the sight of Alastor at the front of the room, halfway through a lesson teaching the boy how to write his own name. 

They had just reached the letter “a” when the Schoolmaster grabbed Alastor’s wrist and twisted. The chalk dropped to the floor. The sound it made on impact, a curious tinkle like the bells on a fairy’s wing, echoed in Alastor’s brain. Too loud. The Schoolmaster was shouting - but Alastor could not hear him. Just the cling cling of the chalk hitting the floor.

Alastor tipped his head in confusion at this distortion of his reality. He should be able to hear the Schoolmaster. But it all went quiet and time slowed. He saw the tip of the Schoolmaster’s cane leave the floor. 

Then Alastor was being grabbed around the chest and hauled bodily to the door.

He heard the cane hit the ground. A deeper, darker sound - clunk clunk - the heavy beat of a dragon’s wings. His mind goes to his maman’s piano in her room and he wonders if he can find the right keys to bring the fairy and the dragon together.

“Go find your mamma, Al!” Noah said frantically, pushing him the final step out the door. Alastor wondered if the boy had read his thoughts. His maman would certainly let him play the piano, if he scrubbed his hands real good! 

There was blood on his hands.

He does not remember much after that. His maman did let him play at the piano after she wiped the blood off his hands, his face, his neck. After she took off his shirt and ordered it be burned. After she held him close and stroked his curls. After she shook his shoulders and screamed at him. 

For hours, he caressed the ivory piano keys to search for the fairy bells and dragon’s wings - and was only dimly aware he was not pressing them down at all. 

Just the memory of fairy bells and dragon’s wings and the deep baritone of the Master of the House shouting:

“He’s fucking feral!”

—--

Alastor may have knocked on the door of the then Happy Hotel, but it had been Charlie’s say so to allow him in. He has operated within her framework, pushed the edges of the line in the proverbial sand but never overstepped. As his maman taught him, you caught more flies with honey than vinegar. 

(His maman never did appreciate how a week-old corpse did the trick!)

“A gentleman uses his charm!”

“You are a man of means, Alastor: reputation matters. People judge what they can see. Dress smart, stand tall and proud. No, taller, Darling.”

“You have such a pretty smile, mon coeur. Who could resist?”

“Clean hands! Please, Alastor! For the love of God, Alastor, look at your hands! God, oh God…”

He shakes his head, casting his mother’s memory back to the shadows. 

But he carries her lessons and love in his heart.

So, he straightens his collar and shines up his smile before he knocks on the princess's door that evening. Vaggie answers. Wonderful. She has changed into a skimpy slip of fabric that serves as a sorry excuse for a nightgown. The irritation she exudes is, in stark contrast, thick and coats the air between them. She adjusts her stance, hands on hips, with scowl so deep over her eye that she is really quite unattractive. 

A grey gargoyle. 

Truly, Charlotte, as Princess of Hell, and quite conventionally pretty, could do better.

“Vagatha! A delight! A pleasure! Your embodiment of the very door you opened is remarkable. Well done.” He uses his staff to sweep her aside, sending a sliver of power down its length so that a static shock bites her forearm upon impact. 

“Argh! What do you want, Alastor?” 

The Radio Demon ignores her. His gaze locks on Charlie, pacing the length of the large suite with the - hold for suspense - yes, the wailing child in her arms. The Princess looks frazzled, her hair wrapped in a rare messy bun at the nape of her neck, a round mass nearly dwarfing the size of her head, dressed in a spit stained sweater and leggings, hooves bare on the carpet. She bobs as she walks. Her hand is a blur of tapping on the child’s back.

“Al!” She does not even slow her pacing. “How are you feeling?”

“Right as rain!” He keeps his voice bright and happy. A true statement even. He is raw and tingly - the way one feels after having been caught in a bout of Hell’s acid rain.

Charlie smiles at him as she shifts the child so it lays higher on her chest. It stops crying, mid-wail. The two women in the room visibly brighten with hope. Before they can release that tension in a sigh of relief, the infant’s wide, black hole of a mouth cracks open once more in a more powerful wail.

The wicked sadist within Alastor cackles at their crestfallen faces.

“Do you need something, Al?” Charlie asks on a sigh.

He blinks. 

Despite the thousands of requests, negotiations, deals, and outright demands he’s ever made in life, he cannot find the words to request permission to take the child back.

“I am here to…retrieve it.” He says awkwardly, pointing his staff (tracking her as she keeps pacing) at the child. At her frown, he checks the statement. “Apologies, her. I am here to retrieve her.”

“Oh. Oh! No, we’ll keep her. You need to rest! 5-5-5!” 

Alastor’s brain flicks through the possibilities of what this possibly could mean. The Princess of Hell could not have forgotten Hell’s most treasured number? Even so, it makes no sense in context. 

He blinks again, one brow quirked in confusion.

Vaggie smirks at him, “5 days in bed. 5 days on the bed. 5 days around the bed.” She catches his glance at the chaos of books on the bed. “She’s been reading.”

“You need to prioritize rest and recovery, Al. And this little girl is, well, not sleepy. But I read that happens at the second night. Crying. Lots of feeding.” She nuzzles the cherry red circle of her cheek against the top of the infant’s head, dropping a kiss before looking back at Alastor. “She just needs so much attention right now.”

“My dear, your concern is entirely wasted on little old me! I am fit as a butcher’s dog. Strong as an Ox. Spry as a Spring Chicken. Nimble as a Mountain Goat. Heal-”

“Yeah, yeah, eres como una cabra.” Vaggie interrupts, chuckling. 

“Not just your body, Al. Birth trauma is a very real thing.” Charlie stops her pacing to give him such a look of pity that he physically recoils. “Let us help. I feel just terrible that I didn’t see. Gosh, it is so freaking obvious now. The weight gain, the mood swings -”

“Honey, moods are just…Alastor.” 

“-and then the birth.” Her voice deepens and rasps with a frankly unnecessary amount of gruffness. 

“Yes.” He drawls and infuses his voice with extra chipperness. “Anyway! Let bygones be bygones and all that jazz. I am in tip top shape to take possession of the child once more.” 

Charlie's puff of anxious breath is a visible cloud in the air. 

“Uhh, yeah yeah. Okay, okay! You are taking the baby…the baby is being taken by you.” 

Alastor taps the head of his microphone (tap tap tap) and trails a lingering snippet of feedback in the air. “Testing, testing - is there an echo in here?” He lets the end reverberate off the walls. It cuts off suddenly as his chest constricts in response to the child’s low whimper.

The knot in his ribs loosens when he finally has the infant back in his grasp. Tiny hands, covered in mittens of soft white cotton, paw at him. It nuzzles against his chest, snuffling. Warmth blooms in his chest. Alastor almost mistakes it for emotion before recognizing the rush as the same from this morning.

No.

“A bottle, my dear?” He grits through clenched teeth.

“I’ll bring it to you!” Charlie agrees in a near shout. “Just…”

She breaks off and bites her lower lip.

“Yes?” He asks. Honestly, he risks being virtuous in his patience.

She sucks in a deep breath. The sulfuric level in the room drops considerably.

“The gloves on her hands keep her from scratching herself so keep them on and she has very delicate limbs so don’t hold her too tight and her neck needs to be supported and CAREFUL of your claws and your teeth and don’t just leave her on furniture and leave and no shadow travel and I know you have alligators in that swamp, Al, and -”

“Might I too state the obvious or do you intend to monopolize this portion of our program?” 

“...no?”

With great effort, Alastor swallows the biting attack on the tip of his tongue.

“It is getting late, Charlotte. I will be in my…in the guest room.” He says instead.

It is not - nor has it ever been in the history of humanity or afterlife - that simple.

Alastor is reminded of ghost stories of New Orleans, a city bustling with tragedy and violence, of long nights interrupted by the supernatural and the psychological. That second night with the child is like that. 

The child has returned to its pitched wail by the time he reaches the room. Charlie breaks through the door at a run (the door slams into the opposing wall, denting the angelic plaster), bottle held before her like a sword. As he feeds it, she hovers, offers tips, adjusts the bottle, invades his person as she shifts his arms. 

They both sigh in relief when the child remains quiet, sleeping once more.

Then Alastor feels wetness on his sleeve and they discover the diaper had come undone at the top and the child has urinated over his arm. 

He excuses himself to the washroom to freshen up.

Upon his return, Charlie reluctantly returns the - now dry but now sobbing - child to him. Alastor tries to pace, at Charlie’s suggestion. 

(“Sway - with your hips! More…okay, maybe just swing your arms? Too much, maybe? Too much!”) 

It vomits down his shirt. 

He excuses himself to freshen up.

Vaggie brings in a fresh bottle and grabs the child from her paramour to feed, singing some Spanish lullaby. It drifts off once more. They three sigh in relief. Vaggie gently lowers it into the bassinet Alastor conjures. They three stare at each other, and smile.

Then the infant cry begins again.

So it goes, from dusk to dawn, as the room lightens from ruby red to orange gold. A strange cast of characters filter into the borrowed quarters throughout the night. The two women and Alastor engage in a barely friendly game of tug-o-war with the infant. Charlie’s overbearance filter apparently clogs early on as she gives a rambling commentary on tips, tricks, and “(just a) suggestion”s. 

Books pile up around the room as she tries to show him her cited sources.

Vaggie eventually falls asleep in the armchair around 2:00am (Charlie passes out on top of her shortly thereafter). The infant's cries had stopped at that point. But its ice blue stare is alert. Alastor feels his ears drooping, a first sign of actual exhaustion. Even Shadow is sluggish. But Alastor is above such weakness and continues his trek around the room. 

Angel Dust invades shortly after that, sequins and glitter coating several rounds of diapers and blankets. The extra appendages help for a time, before his inability to speak quietly - and waking up Charlie within the half hour - results in a ban. 

Husker shows up sometime after last call to deliver a round of shots for the battle weary. 

Several residents pop in and out with suggestions before Alastor wards the room against tertiary characters.

Niffty zips in and out, following orders for more bottles, more diapers, a new blanket, to do loads of laundry, etc., etc., etc. Several times that night, Alastor needs to excuse himself to change his own shirt for reasons he refuses to divulge. The sour sweet scent of the fabric stirs his hindbrain to send an alert of panic through his nerves.

All the while, the child cries and cries, sleeps for snippets of time filled with false hope, wakes at the slightest movement, and vomits approximately thirty three times - on Alastor exclusively. Charlie looks over in sympathy at him as she gently sponge bathes the child over the sink. He means to send her a confident smile, but his grin is becoming less stable on his face.

“Fuck, you guys also thinkin’ somethin’ must be wrong with her?” Angel mutters (having snuck in during one of the times Alastor excused himself to freshen up).

Alastor’s antlers lengthen an inch with a snap.

“Shut it and go to bed, Angel.” Vaggie tells him, obviously exhausted. 

“Would love ta!” Angel shrieks with a near manic laugh. “But ya put Al and lil’ miss screamer here on my floor. I might as well sleep in the studio wit all the comin’s and goin’s and wailin’!”

“Then do so!” Alastor snaps with a vicious snarl, eyes growing dark, static thick in the air. His antlers expand a foot this time, snapping like dry branches on the forest floor. 

The infant, predictably, wails. 

“Okay!” Charlie shouts. “Baby girl is heading back upstairs with us. I’ll text my dad to soundproof the rooms better. Al, don’t give me that look, please - 5-5-5, remember? Rest. We are here for you!”

And, in minutes, Alastor is alone once more in the impersonal, sterile guest room.

It is quiet. 

Quiet except for the muffled sobs of his wailing infant in the distance.

---

Breakfast is an absurdly loud affair considering the long night they all spent tortured by an infant’s near soul piercing wails. 

“Good morning, Mama!” 

It does not register at first. Alastor had been nursing his third cup of rich black coffee when the tall cyclops crashed her way into the staff kitchen, singing at the top of her lungs. With a click of his internal station, he had tuned her out. He could not sleep in that quiet, alien room and there is an itch of overtiredness that leaves him distracted. But then the Spider Demon next to him started cackling. And Vaggie snorted - unladylike - into the edge of her palm. Husker had given him a long stare, a feline richter scale measuring the magnitude of Alastor’s reaction.

Mama.

“My dear,” Alastor begins cordially, taking another long slurp of bitter bliss, “I shall give you until my cup runneth dry to remove yourself from my presence.” 

“Don’t get your tits in a twist.” Cherri plops down on Angel’s lap, her thick ponytail smacking her friend square in the face. “You might leak.” A long, challenging stare over the rim of Angel’s pilfered cup. “Mama.”

It is so spot on to the very line of thinking that had been distracting him that he is quite stunned into silence. Fortunately, the Angel takes the opening to add his own unnecessary commentary.

“Come on, Sugar, Al’s had a rough night.” Angel says and then winks. “Speaking -”

Alastor makes a little flicking motion with his fingers. A wave of coffee splashes from Cherri/Angel’s cup, spilling over their laps with admittedly greater force than Alastor had intended.

“You fucking creeper bitch!” Cherri shrieks. “This skirt is leather!”

“Cool it, Sugs. We’ll get ya a new one when we go out.”

The cyclops shoots her coffee like a shot. “Then let’s get with it, bitch!” She jumps up, grabbing three of her friend’s hands.

Angel laughs, “Alright, alright. Just gotta get the plastic from Charlie.” 

“They are finally sleeping. Leave them alone.” Vaggie leaves the threat unspoken, but she holds the knife she is using to butter her toast with enough menace to get her point across.

She is looking at Alastor as she says it.

“At least someone is.” Angel mutters, pouring himself another cup of coffee and passing it among his hands to avoid Cherri’s attempted theft.

“You whiny bitch - it gets better! First nights are actual hell - none of the fun of this shitshow. Gotta get them on schedule and BAM! smooth sailing until the next one.” She pours her own cup of coffee.

(Charlie would probably count this as “ healthy problem solving” and give her a gold star, if only Cherri would actually commit to being a resident)

The trio stares at her, surprised.

“What? I had nephews. My sister hit the bottle hard in the early days.” Cherri trails off and sips her coffee with a more solemn air.

“I give Charlie props with all this shit.” Angel remarks stretching his first set of arms high while the lower set reached low. “No warnin’, no prep and she just takes it.”

“ Angel …”

“I mean - she must ‘ave a hundred books up there! And she got all a that baby stuff quicksmart. And all that wit’ the kid on her mosta the day!”

Alastor’s teeth itch. He wants to snap right through the sinner’s words until they are soggy, bleeding bits of scraps. 

“Good morning!” Charlie sing-songs as she graces them with her presence.

Say her name and she shall come!

Charlie bounces over to Vaggie and bends to kiss her partner's cheek. Her usual suit is covered by a folded shawl. Alastor knows immediately the child is there. He can smell it. The rush in his chest is a throbbing ache. The first drops of sweet liquid tip onto his shirt and he grips his coat closer to his body.

“Nice - it’s working!” Vaggie says in an excited whisper.

“Yeah, I think she will sleep all day this way, all warm and comfy cosey! The books say she probably has her days and nights mixed up.” Charlie looks into the sash with an indulgent smile. “Poor sweetie. But I am getting a nap in today - we all should! But first... one coffee for me, please!”

"One coffee coming up, doll face." Angel promises, setting to the task.

“I suppose I can attend to the mountain of paperwork I anticipate is waiting for my attention.” Alastor says, hotly humiliated for reasons he cannot put his finger on. They involve the child, clearly, though Alastor cannot say with an honest soul that he would prefer to spend his day as he spent his night, covered in piss and vomit. But the idea of the child being elsewhere, though he does not want the child to be with him (certainly, he does not wish that!)...if he cannot explain it in his internal monologue, he can hardly tell Charlie any of it. Absurd drivel at its finest!

“Ma-ter-ni-ty leave.” Vaggie spears pieces of fruit with each syllable. Juice leaks from a raspberry onto the white table cloth. It’s stain is quick spreading and far reaching. 

Alastor considers what color the fallen angel’s blood would dry as. Human blood was everchanging in its shades. Might an angel’s blood dry orange? Or yellow as a daisy's heart? Just one swipe of his claws -

“Rest, Al.” Charlie orders softly. “Once you are healed and my Aunt Bel gives the go ahead, you can return to work.”

“I will restore my room to rights then.” He offers instead.

“5. 5. 5.” Vaggie smirks, clearly enjoying this. 

Charlie sighs, “My Aunt Bel can come as soon as my dad grants her visit - we can ask if you have work restrictions then. I just-” She cuts herself off and spends a long time staring at the coffee Vaggie puts in her hand. “Vaggie, my dad is not texting me back.”

The air goes still.

“He will, toots.” Angel finally says softly. 

Charlie smiles and perks up, “I left the card and list at the desk. Don’t worry about the limit. Buy what you think will work. I’ll send the bill to the palace. I’ll explain it to Dad…if he ever answers me.”  

Angel and Cherri practically squeal in unison “No limits!?”

“Only stuff for the baby!” Vaggie shouts at their retreating backs. “And count the legs holes - and remember the sizing is different for imps!”

Wispy tentacles catch the sinners around the waist, whisking them through the air, and depositing them back at the table.

Three eyes glare at him. The sinners actually bare their teeth at the Radio Demon! Ha! Perhaps Alastor should check the weather for Hell hath surely frozen over. He answers their pointy threat with a deranged grin of his own, neck snapping to the side. The room darkens. 

Then he snaps his fingers and a shiny red credit card flicks into existence.

“Take my card.” He says, sweet as arsenic, and holds out the card.

“What?” Angel blinks.

“Oh, Al! No.” Charlie looks close to tears, but her lips hold a wobbly smile. “You do so much for the hotel, let the hotel cover it. Please, we want to.”

“You mean let Lucifer cover it.” Alastor hisses. His nerves are cracking. The very fibers that hold him together scream. He can taste the iron tang of blood as his teeth snip the inside of his cheek. He comes dangerously close to losing his fingertip grip on his temper. “No. I will fund it. In for a penny, in for a pound. And you may be a two penny whore, dear Angel Dust, but please select items of quality for the child.” He says the last with a sickly sweet grin and an exaggerated wink.

“Hey!” The sinner barks back at him, grinning wide, “I am a very expensive whore.” 

The red of Alastor’s credit card reflects in the yellow sclera of his right eye. 

“No!” Charlie protests. “I mean it. Angel, use the hotel card. My dad will cover, no biggie.”

Alastor bristles. His ears flick angrily in response. The traitors.

“Listen, I really don’t give a fuck whose money it is. Let’s spend it!” Cherri grabs the card and puts it in her top. 

“Hey! Listen up! We’ll get the basics on Smile’s card.” Angel decides. “And my present to the baby will go on the other one.”

“Seriously?” Vaggie snorts.

“I intend to be very generous with Daddy’s money.”

"NO!"

The Radio Demon's antlers have grown to several feet in length and his arms now hang too close to the floor. The crimson is drained from his eyes. The screams of the damned threaten to spill into the room and he only just swallows them back down. Thick black bile nearly chokes him. He breathes hard. Moment by moment, he pulls together his composure by the edges of his fingernails. His smile is painfully tight as his form stabilizes.

Surprisingly, the child sleeps on.

He clears his throat and swallows a stray chunk of congealed bile. 

"No." He says more calmly. "I will fund the child's needs. It is my place to do so. Please, I do have sufficient funds for a spree. It would be my pleasure."

Charlie wears a small frown that does not lift when Alastor beams at her. He redoubles his efforts to no avail. Fine. Alastor has no time to attend to the ego of a busy body princess. 

He has a room to repair.

 

Chapter 5

Notes:

I think there is going to be a lot of satisfaction from this chapter.

Long chapter coming out Friday/Saturday. Thanks for sticking with me!

T/W: ya'll know what fandom you're in. Nothing too shocking here.

Alastor’s shadow demons scrubbed and slaved to set his rooms to rights. The Radio Demon himself sat crumpled in the chair. He is exhausted. The space between his neck and shoulders (and his upper and lower back, and his hips and his thighs) is a mess of knotted, twisted muscles. He dips into periodic dozes, awakened by shots of panic as his hindbrain sends false alarms through his shot nerve endings. 

Shadow tries to massage out the knots, but his anxious vibrations only rattle Alastor’s own anxiety to teeth clenching levels. He waves away his companion but Shadow only furls around his ankles with a fierce devotion, loyal lap dog that he is.

At least his room can be pieced back together good as new! Broken glass swept into a pristine mirror, burnt walls scrubbed and painted, blood lifted from the carpet…all spick an span, neat as a new pin!

Alastor considers the space. 

With a clap, the gleaming, polished black bassinet snaps into existence in the center of the sitting room in a black lined cloud of red magic.

Hmm, not quite.

Not that Alastor made mistakes, but, at times, adjustments were necessary.

He taps the tip of his sharp chin with a gloved finger.

Ah.

With a flick of his wrist, the bassinet reappears next to the bed. A second flick changes the bedding to red pinstripes. A third, and a black canopy, a near identical miniature of the fabric draped above his bed, unfurls.

Better.

Now to fill it.

“ALL YOU MOTHERFUCKERS GET DOWN HERE!” A high-pitched voice screeches at an octave that defies individuality. 

Alastor races through the shadows in a wink of panicked dissolution. He melts through the door, racing down the hallways, twisting around the bannisters, gliding across a just-waxed floor - he catches Nifty up in a cloud of shadow, spinning her like a top. She giggles, clapping, the pupil of her eye still spinning even after he passes by - Alastor discovers the motley crew in the midst of…

...a celebration?

A very pink celebration.

A slash of fabric loudly states, in dripping pink paint: IT’S A GIRL! A dozen oversized magenta balloons are placed strategically like landmines on the floor. A great bowl of pink punch, with balls of - you guessed it! - pink ice and slices of stained lemons bob at the surface, sits on a long table next to a pile of shining, gift-wrapped boxes. Streamers and tulle have had apparent victory following a fuchsia blitz of the lobby, hanging from the ceiling, the walls, the sconces. Slippery sequins positively litter the floor and chunks of pink glitter have made their way into the large golden rug in the center. 

(Nifty tries to stab them up with her knife, breaking up the clumps and further marring the surface with holes and glitter) 

Husker wears a large pink bow below his scowl.

“This is so, so, soooo AMAZING!” Charlie begins, (pink) stars in her eyes, cheeks gathered in (red) balls near her temple. 

Alastor slithers in shadow to her side. He reaches a hand towards the -

“NOW!” Angel screams and the room explodes.

Well, the balloons do. 

Cherri Bomb cackles as the party attendees shriek in alarm during the veritable storm of (pink) glitter, ribbons, streamers and billowing (gray) smoke. Strips of (pink) ribbon tangle between Alastor’s antlers and he sends a burst of (green) flame to disintegrate them.

“WOW - THAT WAS REALLY, UM, SOMETHING!” Charlie shouts, twisting her fingers in her ears, cringing.

The infant - wait for it - is wailing again.

Fluid rushes through Alastor’s chest, wetting his shirt instantly, and an overwhelming longing for relief overtakes his brain. He releases the pressure in a small burst frequency at such a pitch only canine demons should be aware.

Husker, a demon of a feline persuasion, gives a grumble of discomfort and helps himself to a long swig of pink champagne.

Cherri, giddy with celebratory glee or aftershocks, bounces to the Princess’s side. “Sorry, Char, can’t have the bang without the boom, ya know?” Her sharp grin monopolizes her face. “I got this.” And she scoops the child from the wrap before the smoke clears, disappearing through the door leading to the staff rooms, the sound of the child’s angry wail growing faint and muffled.

Alastor makes a concerted effort to brighten the room as shadows answer his dark mood. The stitches at the corners of his mouth pull taut on his skin. Patience. No need to get the eagers when there is zero chance the Princess will allow him to retire during a celebration of such a personal nature. He supposes he should embrace the acknowledgement of the child's arrival as a momentous event, even if the decor is appalling.

“And the peez-duh-resistahhnce” Angel Dust announces, butchering the French phrase with his exaggerated emphases on all the wrong syllables, and pins an gaudy, oversized button on her lapel.

 

🩷MOMMY         

TO BE 🩷

 

“O-oh. Nooo. I don’t- ” Charlie lifts her coat away, eyes wide on the button. 

Alastor laughs, radio filter heavy in his voice.

“Ah ha ha ha! Haha! Oh hi-de-ho!” He floats the requisite jazzy saxophone scale followed by a bit of scat, a tasteful rearrangement of the dying screams of tortured avian overlord. Ahh, that was a gasser of a show! The memory calls back some control. “What a lark! HILARIOUS! Ah. Ha.” 

“Innit it just?” Angel smiles sweetly. “Found it at Ass-modeus, ya kno, sex shop on da corner o’ Brim and Stone. Gotta love kinks! Figured Charlie deserved it.” 

“Noooooooooo.” Charlie insists, stuck between horror and embarrassment. 

Angel crosses two pairs of arms, “Yes. You stepped up. Not yer problem and you got it fixed.” His expression softens, and a real, genuine smile lights up his wide face, “You always do.”

Charlie sniffs as Vaggie pulls her in for a tight, one-armed hug. 

“Yer real special, babe.” Angel insists and grabs her in a two-armed, one-sided hug on her free side.

“You really are amazing, Angel Dust.” Charlie says quietly, and kisses his blushing cheek.

“Now let’s get this party started!” Cherri Bomb shouts from somewhere in the back of the small gathering. “The Princess is here!” 

(“AWWWW!” “OH MY GOSH!” “Okay, that’s pretty damn cute.”)

The cyclops emerges with what might be mistaken as an ugly pink and white bird. The amount of feathers dripping from a long cape(?) is absurd. A preposterous bubblegum pink bow has been tied around the sparse amount of hair the child posesses, tucked in the middle of a bejeweled fabric crown. Its soft cotton mittens have been replaced by long opera style, white silk gloves, complete with several small pink beaded “friendship” bracelets. Hell’s smallest pair of bunny slippers cover its toes.

Below a ridiculous pair of pink tinted, heart shaped sunglasses, the child sucks vigorously on a binky.

“You found a paci! You both are A-MAZ-ING!” Charlie gushes. 

“Hear that, Whiskers? Three “a-maz-ings” in da hour.” Angel shoots a smirk to the bartender. “Pay up, baby.” 

The Cat Demon begrudgingly puts two green bills in the Spider Demon’s paw.

If faces could spark fires, Vaggie would have set them both aflame with her glare.

“Kink shop.” Cherri answers Charlie, pulling the attention off her betting buddies. She smooths the front of the infant's (magenta) onesie. “Imp ones were too small. Luckily, demons, and their kinks, come in all sizes!”

“One more surprise afore this party starts, yeah? Field trip!”

"Angel."

"Not to the kink shop. Though if ya want..."

They ascend the stairs as a group, Alastor rounding out the rear. Up, up, up, the flights of stairs they climb. The group chatters on. Alastor sends Shadow ahead but it is all nonsense. New stores in the Entertainment District, Cherri’s haggling prowess, Angel’s use of his “assets” in getting a “sweet deal” on a pack of diapers and a kaleidoscope dildo. 

So, up, up up to the top floor, and Alastor is the last to see their destination, set in the middle, the group having spread naturally into a line upon reaching their destination. Angel and Cherri, with the infant still sucking happily on its binky in her arms, bookend the doors to the room - an unused office space intended for Charlie - next to the primary suite. 

With a dramatic flair, Angel opens the double doors. 

More pink.

So pink that it takes a moment for Alastor to piece apart parts of the room.

The lights are pink. The carpet is pink. The walls are light pink with dark pink polka dots.

A rocking chair, complete with a fuzzy pink fur cushion and dark pink hearts on pale pink wood.

A dark pink changing table.

A pale pink bassinet, speckled with rose gold sparkles. 

Put it together and one gets…a nursery.

There is a beat of silence that lasts too long.

“Well?” Angel demands, hands on hips, “Come on, people! Words! We spent two hours on this!”

“Angel…” Vaggie groans, clearly frustrated. 

Charlie buzzes nervously beside her, biting at her fingernails. “It is sooo good, but -”

“This is not my floor.” Alastor remarks, matter-of-fact. 

“But it’s Charlie’s.” Angel shoots back. 

Charlie winces. “Well, uhh, Alastor, that’s, um, that’s one thing we - I - was going to talk to you about. Uh, well, it might be better for you to move up here across from us?” She gestures to the unoccupied suite across the hall, previously intended for her absentee father. “So, I - and Vaggie! - can be right here.” She points to their suite and smiles, too wide, blinking too much to be natural. “So, little miss will have her own team nearby! AAAAAND now Angel and Cherri have decorated this beautiful room -”

“My room has been repaired and I am sure adequate provisions can be made for the child.”

“You live in a swamp, Alastor.” Vaggie puts in, judgmental to the core.

“A bayou, please.”

“A baby can’t live in a bayou.”

“Why, my dear, I was practically raised in the bayou! Some of my most treasured memories were made in those marshy waters!”

“My point precisely.” 

He cannot quite place that statement, but he is sure there is some bitter satisfaction in Vaggie’s voice.

“Al,” Charlie puts a hand on his arm, and says softly, “this way you won’t have to “mother” her.” She adds air quotes to damn him. “You know, we talked about it, and Vaggie and I want to be here for her. To help you! So you can keep doing, you know, Radio Demon shit!”

So, Charlie wants to play house with her little paramour and his child. To be a mother with none of the pain and all of the glory. A thief in broad daylight, taking what is his for her own. A snake in the grass…

Alastor is on the edge of a precipice. The chill of his shadow already is soaking through his blood, loosening the fibers that hold him together. It replaces his blood with black ichor, making his mind both light and so, so dark. He breathes in and tastes decomposition and flamed citrus peels in the back of his throat. 

Swallowing hard, ichor thick along his internal linings, the Radio Demon approaches Cherri and lifts the child into own arms. His eyes might be afright because she very nearly refuses him. His sensitive ears catch Charlie’s voice among the screaming souls, the radio static, and the overwhelming darkness.

Slowly, the sounds die and the lights flicker back to normal.

The feather cloak is slippery against the fabric of his coat. And is absolutely the first thing that needs to be corrected. Instead of slicing through the straps or burning the offensive garment altogether, Alastor plays at polite, domestic gentleman and undoes the tiniest buttons created by demon or man. Once he has freed the child from “fashion,” Alastor leans down to put his face - smile reined into a small, tight line - against its cheek. 

He takes in a deep breath and the sweet smell of his child replaces the burning horror in his lungs. His panicked heart - oh, has it been racing all this time? - slows to a more manageable rhythm. It beats blood back through his veins, to his head. He presses his lips to its temple, not quite a kiss, more of an acknowledgment, a recognition. 

“Awww!” Someone breathes loudly, to a chorus of louder shhhhhhushes.

Not ashamed, but with a heightened awareness of himself now that actual blood has made it to his brain, he draws himself up straight and clears his throat. He cannot put his own clothes to rights with his arms full, but he makes the effort to adjust the infant’s onesie.

 

⚝FUTURE VOXTASTAR⚝

 

“Where did you get this?” He asks quietly, knowing the answer. That hypo-wavey-trashy cyan logo is stamped on its belly. 

Angel’s big eyes go wider and he holds up his hands in a “oh please please don’t shoot me, mr. bad guy” gesture.

“Oh, uhh, the vees have fa-”

The corners of Alastor’s vision go dark. Ichor flows through him freely, the dam finally broken. An original jaunty, dissonant tune on piano slips into a full brass band playing at odds with itself, nonsense blasts and scales and concertos.

“How dare you?” The Radio Demon hisses. “Marking her with the sigil of another? His mark? On what is MINE.” His shadow sweeps around him like a tornado, mouth slashed wide in a red grin, growing larger and larger at each turn. Wind whips through the spectator’s hair and knocks pictures off the wall. The lights flicker blood red light through the hallway; actual blood seeps through the wallpaper, dripping onto the carpet.

“It’s okay, Al, it was a mistake!” Charlie - stupid, stupid girl - breaks away from the huddled onlookers. “Just - hand me the baby and we can all talk this out!”

The Radio Demon's voice, thick with radio static, distorts and swings. “Oh, Prin-cess. Shall I tell you how mortals deal with royals who take, and take, and take? It is the royals who KNEEL at the end!” The sound of a guillotine’s blade slices through the instruments and his voice, silencing it all but for the wind and static. The demon’s smile stays still as the disembodied voices of dead children mock the princess: “Charlie isn’t SHARING, Charlie isn’t CARING.” 

“I do care,” She insists, expression determined, “Al, she isn’t safe -”

“AND YOU CAN PROTECT HER?” His antlers crack and branch out far beyond the width of the door frame. His shadow stops its tornado to posture menacing behind him, expanding to tower over them from the ceiling, antlers stretching cartoonishly across the length of the hallway. The booming echo of his voice drops to a hissed whisper, “No, you are weak, you are naive, you are laughable.” 

The Radio Demon does laugh then. A cackling, scrape of a laugh designed to tear through confidence and cartilage. He laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs.

Then stops.

“A failure.” His voice is a crack of a whip and Charlie flinches. 

“Al…please,” Charlie takes another step forward. Her demonic features emerge, whether in her own effort or instincts is a coin toss. “...give me the baby.”

She holds out her arms. They are steady. Her determined gaze stays on his face.

The Radio Demon grips the infant tighter to his chest, with more strength necessary to strangle a man or snap a limb, and envelopes them both within the protection of his powers. 

“I’ll destroy you.” The Radio Demon promises, black ichor dripping from his chin, his pupils radio dials in pools of blood. “I will devour you…if you dare attempt to take her…I will rip you. Limb. from. Limb. And broadcast your screams to all of Hell and Heaven alike. Let Lucifer see his star fall...let him weep...”

“Charlie!” The former exorcist screams, brandishing her angelic spear. 

“No! Don’t upset him!”

“Oh! Hahahahaha!” The Radio Demon’s laugh is popping static. It is shattering glass in another dimension. It is musical and terrorizing and glorious . “And now I see the game! You would protect her from ME. That I would devour my young. A beast. A MONSTER.” He drags a wall of shadows from behind to push her closer to his razor sharp, bared smile and snaps his jaws a paper thin distance from her cheek, snapping the surface tension on a stray tear in a mini-burst of salt water. Their - really, quite useless - spectators do not even cry out for her despite the very real chance of injury.

Oh, they have all been captured in shadow tendrils, mouths gagged. 

Another Alastor-Approved improvement to the Hazbin Hotel!

“Neither Sinner nor Devil shall take her from me! SHE IS MINE!”

The Radio Demon pulls the power in all at once. The sudden deprivation after so much sensation leaves the onlookers reeling. The hallway smells of vomit as several empty the contents of their stomach. Only Charlie stands, unaffected and steady on her feet, and does not bother to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

“You know, my dear.” Alastor says conversationally. “I find I am no longer entertained by the antics of this hotel.”

There is another heavy downbeat of silence.

Then...

“No!” Charlie gasps.

Red voodoo symbols leech from the blood stained walls around them, melting into Alastor’s coat. The air is charged with the electric output of a deal completed. 

“Don’t -”

Alastor slips into a pool of shadows, and lets them take him where they might.

Notes:

Whew.

Chapter 6

Notes:

Thanks for all the love! I hope the last chapter was as satisfying to read as it was to write.

Chapter T/W:
Self-harm

In the end, there really were not many places for Alastor, the Radio Demon, to go. Burned bridges really did limit one's travel options. He had considered the Emporium, but to impose on Rosie’s small apartment above her establishment with a child in tow felt rather gauche. Besides, Alastor is no beggar or vagabond. 

So he goes to his home. His actual, registered at city hall, pays annual taxes on, obeys the HOA rules and regulations, home. 

(This is Hell after all. HOAs and taxes are as standard as brimstone and hellfire)

It is a quaint little residence, a cottage really, located between the loose boundaries of the Doomsday District and the tight lines of Cannibal Town. Directly behind the cottage is a massive, otherworldly, sprawling forest of darkness, despair, and doom that regularly emitted shrieks of terror and roars of preternatural predators. Alastor had not an inkling how this piece of property stayed on the market for a minute! 

Shadow unlocks the door to his home. The wards are still in place, though the overgrowth of the yard leaves much to be desired. But this neighborhood tended toward the unkempt and, besides, no one had actually seen the HOA president since Alastor's little meeting with him upon arrival. The position had remained conspicuously available afterwards.

So, no worries of fines, anyway.

It is dusty. The child sneezes. Shadow sneezes. Alastor outright refuses to sneeze and waves away eight years of dust, cobwebs, and neglect out the door behind him with a flick of his hand. Electric lights respond to a pulse of energy. Nothing has changed. Clean and minimalist, sharp lines of red and black decor, a particularly impressive rack of antlers hangs above the sitting room couch, but there is little here aimed for comfort. 

Alastor had never found a use for softness or comfort, here in Hell. It showed weakness. And weakness is fatal.

The bedroom, just past the small sitting room, is much the same. Antlers above a small table. A single chair pushed under a simple red vanity, a couch for sleeping, and a small private washroom separated by a black beaded curtain. 

The showstopper is the glass wall showcasing the dark forest beyond. It really is a two-way mirror that Alastor had warded against Hell’s monsters beyond. Alastor once enjoyed taking his morning coffee in here to watch the shadows move within the forest’s depths. 

Now, he magics up a pile of blankets against the glass and stumbles, exhausted, into the makeshift nest. When he lays the child next to him, there is no answering wail. He realizes the child had been silently sucking on the binky during his dramatic exit of the hotel and through shadow travel. It stares at him. He lays next to it - her - and then curls around her protectively. 

With half a thought, he vanishes the damned onesie to a lower level of Hell.

Alastor sleeps. Hours or minutes, maybe days. Time has no meaning in this peaceful place. The child wakes at some point, a high mewling, waking Alastor from a dead sleep. She sucks on the binky when offered but spits it out nearly immediately.

No milk.

Well, not true. Technically. There is milk, isn’t there? Alastor’s mind is still foggy in sleep. It is for the best, that pride is lost in this sleepy state, because the only decision here is an easy one to make.

Alastor’s chest is only slightly puffed from manufacturing and storing milk for this purpose. It is better to consider it so: a purpose, a function, a necessity. The child clamps onto a thickened nipple and seems to have a better idea of what to do than Alastor does. It is the oddest sensation but so, so relieving as the child fills its belly. He can feel the milk leaving his body. It gives him a disproportionate level of pride - apparently not lost at all - when the child burps against him and falls back to sleep.

He follows suit.

So it goes from sunset through sunrise, the spidery shadows of the forest making their way across the room to mark the hours.

Sleep. Feed. Sleep. Feed. Sleep.

Alastor sheds his shirt entirely at some point in those hours. It is easier to connect infant to breast that way. Shadow changes several wet napkins, cleaning the soiled cloth with a dash through the shadows, and generally keeps watch. They are safe here, protected by Alastor’s magic and Shadow.

Safe.

Safe.

—---

Alastor fades in and out of what may be dreams or memories, likely a mixture of both. Strangely, he dreams of the first time he ran away from home. It is a wisp of a memory, now, coming in these diluted dreams, but, at the time, it was stunning in its intensity. It comes now in snippets. In fragments. In sensations and emotions. And Alastor wakes in a hazy in-between state that he almost believes he can hold that wisp in the palm of his hand.

He had just turned five.

Maman had shut the curtains again, the big ones that were too heavy for Alastor to pull. Candles lit the dark sitting room at high noon. There were long shadows on the walls. It was stiflin’ hot in that room. Alastor played, half-heartedly, with his toy soldiers behind the settee. Grandmere read from the bible in a frail, sweet voice.

“Better a patient man zan a warrior, a man who controls hees temper zan one who takes a city.” The fierce persistence of her French roots slipping through the comfort of oft read passages. 

Alastor decided at that moment he hated God. 

It was for childish reasons, of course. He was hot. Grandmere was boring. He wanted to go outside and play. He wanted to be a warrior like David, even if he was only playing pretend. Why would God make a shepherd into a warrior and decide that no one else could be the same? Alastor did not like to be patient. He did not want to listen to the Bible. He did not understand why he could not go in the sun.

With that, Alastor knew he was damned. 

Matthew and John and Romans and everyone told him he had to love God. 

Alastor was afraid of Hell. The Devil lived there, and demons, and there was fire, and Alastor hated being hot. 

Grandmere carried on and on. Her eyes weren’t so good any more, especially in the dim light, and she did not wear spectacles like Alastor did. So - damned already, destined for eternal suffering without repentance (whatever that meant) - Alastor just…left. 

The afternoon sun warmed his face. He ran through the tall grass, avoiding the tattle tale workers in the fields, playing at spywork through the afternoon shadows. Somehow, he reached the marshy, wet portion of the Holloway property. The ground was soft underfoot so he removed his house slippers. Squishy mud and grass split between his toes. He laughed - and the sound echoed despite the heavy air of the swamp. He kept exploring until sunset.

Then reality broke into the pretend.

Shadows. Shadows and mud. When Alastor lost his footing, he fell into the waters. It was hard to stay in the shallows, in the mud, along the tree roots. He tried to go home, he really did. But the shadows kept changing and the trees all looked the same. It got real dark. He tried to walk where he came from, but it wouldn’t work. He was cold and hungry and he wanted his maman. 

He found a cypress tree with two high roots to lay on and he cried for his maman. 

The bayou was so loud with nightlife.

A shadow approached, slowly, and Alastor closed his eyes, waiting for the Devil to snatch him up.

“Lil’ master!” A warm voice lifted his attention before two strong arms lifted his little shaking body. “Youse done scared yer mamma pas‘er wits, ya lil’ hellion!” 

Alastor, remembering his damnation, cried harder. 

“Nah, chil’, none a that! I gotcha now.” 

Alastor buried himself into the strong man’s neck, sniffling snot into the sweaty warmth. 

“I want my maman!” Alastor sobbed. 

“You’ll get her! Lor’, but you is a mess!” 

Alastor felt those big arms tighten around his shaking body and the man’s head press against his own wet curls. He snuggled into the warm embrace, soaking up the man’s body heat like a sponge, showing more affection to this man than he ever had to the man he called ‘father.’

Sleep must have taken over during the short journey, because Alastor’s sticky eyes were heavy when his maman called his name in relief. His vision was blurred, but he could see the sharp, handsome face of his savior grin wide at his maman and wink. He could hear his maman's muffled crying very near to him, her tears soaking into the man’s coarse shirt as he held her too, and Alastor nuzzled his head against hers.

He felt safe.

—----

Maman.

Why is she crying?

No, Maman is singing.

No, no, no! His mother is dead!

Alastor buried her himself, out in the garden, in the dead of night. 

But there is singing, in his kitchen, a pleasant voice with a hint of nasal. 

Alastor launches himself out of the blanket nest, causing Shadow to swoop in to take his place around the child. His shirt and vest reappear in a puff of smoke. He decides against the formal bow tie and coat in his own home. Besides, the jacket tended to limit his full range of motion and Alastor intends to shred his intruder.

Protect.

Shadow does not need his silent order, baring his red teeth in wait. 

Alastor slips under the door in a pool of shadows.

He blinks, owl-like, upon re-incorporating. 

“Rosie?”

The buxom overlord flashes him a grin over her bony shoulder. She is putting boxes into his cupboards. There are overflowing brown bags on the kitchenette next to a tasteful arrangement of flowers accented with skulls.

“Good morning!” She sings. “Put on the kettle, won’t you, dear?” With a bony hip, she gestures to the tiny stove where, indeed, a tea kettle waits to be tended to. Alastor, more of a coffee drinker himself, perks up at the percolator at its side. The other necessaries have been arranged neatly in a basket: coffee grounds, a pouch of loose leaf tea, 

“It is a pleasure to see you, my dear friend!” Alastor says cheerily as he makes his way to fill the containers in the sink. “A true joy. I mean no offense when I ask: why are you in my house?”

But then he spots a canister of bone meal biscuits in the - now packed - cupboard. A rumble from his stomach interrupts Rosie’s first attempt at an answer. She giggles, one hand on her buxom chest as the other retrieves the canister. Two sets of cross bone patterned plates and tea cups are soon filled with biscuits and steaming aromatic liquids.

All the while, Alastor’s ears flick between Rosie’s idle chatter on the latest Cannibal Town Council gossip and the closed door to his bedroom. He barely notices when he is guided into a chair and urged to drink, to eat, to relaaax!

“To your question: a key.” Rosie answers, belatedly but not at random. “You forgot that I kept this place standing while you were away! Still got my key. Eat. Eat! You better take care of yourself, Alastor! Overlord meetings were dull as dust without you! Can't have you fading away into nothing but shadows. Oh, here, I bought a tray of blood cakes too, try one…nah, two. You must. I baked them just this morning - eat them fresh or they congeal something awful. Sticks to my teeth! And hips - Ha!”

So Alastor fills his belly with bloody sweets and bitter coffee, accepting a second and a third cup gratefully as Rosie fills the room with gossip and anecdotes. His mood lightens as he eats and the tight anxiety rushing in his veins slows to a babbling brook of general uncertainty.

His ears stay pricked for the slightest sound from the other room.

After an hour or so, he plucks up the dredges of his courage. “You must have heard from Charlie then. To know I might be here.” He maintains an expression of nonchalance.

Rosie waves her hand. “The princess stopped by to say her hellos, introduced her sweetheart. Cute couple! Glad I could help mend that lil’ tiff of theirs. As I always say, darling, a few stabs in the back tenderizes the heart!” She takes a patient sip of tea. Her entire demeanor is relaxed and non-assuming. “It was good to see her bright face in town after last year. But, does that girl have a pair of lungs to challenge my own collection! A mile a minute on that mouth! Ha!"

Alastor circles the rim of his empty cup with the tip of a claw. “What news did she bring?” He asks, matching her tone.

“Ah ah ah!” Rosie shakes a half-gloved finger, bright pink and red nail clear on display, “Turn me out the day I trust second hand on what I can get fresh from the source."

He expects more prodding, or, at the very least, an expectant hmmmm?, but she seems content to bask in the warmth of her second cup of tea. The kind smile on her face grows even more lazy as they sit.

She demands nothing of him.

The remaining cakes disappear between them. 

Eventually, Rosie tidies up - insisting that she played host in his own kitchen and would not hear a word to the contrary - and takes stock of the kitchen once more, muttering to herself. She magics up a pen - the mutilated skeleton of a fish - to write a few notes down.

Finally, Alastor sighs out a heavily shoosh of static, “Would you like to see her?” He asks, and curses the manners ingrained in him even after a century in Hell. But Rosie is the exception to his general rule of “destroy and/or conquer” and she had brought him much needed sustenance and supplies.

The infant is slumbering in a circlet of shadow that Alastor knows to be Shadow. 

“An absolute doll.” Rosie proclaims in a whisper. “Pretty as a picture. Almost…”

Human

The unspoken word hangs in the air.

Alastor knows that to be a misnomer. He has not been dead so long as to forget the living. He remembers the imperfections of the human form. Nothing like the carved little doll that these last few days have smoothed out of the pale, wrinkled creature Alastor held post-birth. Her features remain bird-like in their sharpness, but she now carries them with a more refined delicacy. Those round cheeks glow with a healthy rose-gold hue, her bare skin soft and flawless. Even the blue irises in those big eyes have been better focused, having stared up at him in curious study while feeding at his chest.

Alastor clears his throat.

“Quite.” He agrees.

Rosie quirks a brow. “You know, I gotta ask.” She declares.

“I cannot promise an answer but "shoot your shot," as they say!”  

“Well, I just always thought you were a gentleman.” 

Rude.

And here Alastor had cursed himself for being too considerate of his guest.

“I had hoped you would take any slips in decorum-”

“No!” She laughs, covering a toothy grin with both hands. “Alastor, you are such a card! A man, I meant.”

Alastor cocks his head in confusion. “I…am?” He unintentionally has dropped the radio filter.

“You were pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“And gave birth?”

“It followed the former, yes.”

“How many holes - ?”

A screech of a record skipping and scratching cuts her question off clean. Alastor, a gentleman in truth and body, prefers to steer away from discussions of a private nature. He includes his genitals in that category. Call him a prude. Some subjects were not meant for teatime, despite Rosie's open-mindedness. 

“The standard number.” He grits out, setting the metaphorical record to rights.

Rosie shrugs as if they were discussing the latest styles in skeletal decoration.

“Can never be too sure - you remember my pretty young beau? Did not realize he was a bird ‘til I showed him my bees! Ha! Oh, good heavens - look at those peepers!”

The child stares at the two overlords with her bright blues wide and curious. “She will be a heartbreaker, that’s for sure. Lock the doors, bar the windows!” Rosie says, smiling at the little creature indulgently. “Oh, Auntie Rosie is going to spoil you rotten, little girl!”

----

Alastor takes time from the world.

He takes time to heal his body. He sleeps, doing little else but sleep, eat, and feed at the start. The child seems content to do the same. With her belly full, and no longer vomiting up what she has put down, she sprawls like a queen in the nest of mats and blankets. Bare beyond her mitts and napkin, the child snuggles into the warmth of his bare chest in the night and Alastor counts the number of tiny puffs against his skin as he dozes. 

Skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat, she becomes something like an extension of his person.

In the hours she cannot sleep, Alastor practices his control over his magic. His lack of discipline these past days has been unacceptable. He is powerful. Danger and destruction - unintentional danger and destruction, that is - would be very real consequences if he cannot keep that power contained. 

His control must be ironclad and absolute.

He must protect her.

So, he performs intricate shadow play above their nest of blankets as they lounge. He shapes deer frolicking along the forest window and sends a spray of sparkling dust to dissolve them. As he paces the cottage at night - when the child seems insistent on movement - he casts an abstract pattern of lights on the ceiling to shine onto shadow clouds. It is delicate work, grabbing droplets from within a deep well of power and stretching them like ice taffy.

Alastor plays slow, echoey piano pieces through the tombstone radio in the sitting room during these nights. He intends to calm the child, but finds the pieces he plays are his own favorites, from his own childhood.

In some moments, Alastor can forget he is the Radio Demon, all powerful Overlord and Devourer of souls.

He almost forgets he is in Hell at all.

Rosie comes in the mornings, like clockwork, and replenishes the cupboards, hanging chachkies here or placing a knick-knack on that shelf. Making it "home-y," as she says. She brings a pile of simple white gowns for the child, and spends part of her mornings sewing patterns onto them. Or she tidies up around the cottage, insistent that it does her good to putter around playing house instead of ruling her small city within Pentagram City.

Only once, when the child cried during the short window Alastor escaped for a quick wash up, does Rosie take the child into her arms without express permission. Even then, she sang loudly as she rocked the child through the small cottage. Alastor’s ears swiveled to follow the sound and he did not feel fear. 

He expects Charlie's tale was especially detailed during her visit to the emporium for Rosie to be so cautious about overstepping.

The afternoons and evenings are his own. He reads aloud to the child. Or, he might float a snippet of a bayou lullaby through the air. The child seems fascinated with his fingers and studies his scarred knuckles with rapt attention. She has a tendency to suckle at the tips if he is not watchful. When she cries in the twilight hours, it is Alastor who comforts and cares for her. The child is content to take what Alastor gives, and Alastor gives what he is able. 

And so, Alastor and the child reach a sort of peace, an understanding without the need for deals or negotiations. 

Days slip by. 

----

It is a sort of tranquility that cannot last. 

On the fifth morning, Alastor and Rosie give the child a sponge bath. 

The bath itself is uneventful, but for the wailing protests of a child being forced to encounter lukewarm water and the softest cloth a well-provisioned overlord can buy, and so is the idle conversation they share over her head.

It is after, when the child air dries on a thick towel spread across the sitting room rug, legs and arms flailing against the ground in uncoordinated but happy movements, Alastor's fragile confidence shatters.

Across her tiny cheek, from the corner of her left eye to the edge of her nostril, is a long, shiny scratch.

Alastor freezes. Static builds in his ears and he makes no attempt to contain it. Frequency whines as he begins to tremble. He very nearly touches the mark and pulls away at the last hair’s breadth. 

He hurt her. 

He was supposed to protect her and he hurt her.

“Honey? You doing okay?” Rosie’s voice sounds very far away.

Alastor scrambles backwards and nearly falls on his bottom in his panic.

Instead, he dissolves into shadow, swirls through the bedroom wall, and rustles the beaded curtain of the washroom. The small room - barely more than a cupboard - echoes with the rising tone of frequency. He presses his forehead to the sink edge. His breathing comes quick and hard in the basin. 

He hurt her.

Protect.

HE hurt her.

A shrill whimper rips from his throat, something primal and wounded. 

He lifts himself to stare at his hands, spread out and trembling. He has foregone his gloves, in the domesticity of this in between time. His mistake. Sharp, red claws - nearly talons - shine even in this dim light. He wriggles his fingers and they clack clack clack against one another. 

These claws have ripped out throats. They have disemboweled and dissected. He has used them to tear through metal and rip through electric wire. These are weapons. These are dangerous.

Protect.

Buzzing overtakes his brain and numbs whatever reasoning is left over in his blind panic. 

Alastor rips out his claws and drops them in the sink.

One by one by one.

Riiiip Click Riiiip Click Riiiip Click

Black and red lines run down the sink.

Bloody red claws pile at the drain.

His hands, now hanging low at his sides, drip dark droplets onto the clean hardwood.

“Oh, Heavens! Alastor!” 

A strong arm circles his shoulders. There is no give in its pull. He follows, numb, shamed, and sits on the edge of the settee. 

He is supposed to protect her.

He has to protect her -

“- from me.” He mouths the words.

“Your hands! Oh, Alastor, look at your poor hands!” 

For the love of God, Alastor, look at your hands! God, oh God…

The Radio Demon cackles. Long and hard and freeing. So hard that tears prick the corners of his eyes and his sides ache. So long that the shadows hiding within his heart spread out from his feet. 

It - she - starts to wail from the next room. 

“Alastor!” 

Alastor!

Alastor!

"Alastor!"

He grips his head. Sticky, wet blood slides down his face. He smells the iron tang of it and grins. 

SMACK!

Rosie backhands him. Hard.

“Enough.” She snaps. “Gather your sanity. I will give you one minute.” 

Tick Tock Tick Tock Tick Tock Tick Tock Tick Tock Tick Tock Tick Tock Tick Tock Tick Tock

His eyeballs snap left to right in time with the audio clip. His antlers grow just high enough that his ears snap against them. The edges of his smile bleed. 

“That’s right. Get it all out of your system, Sweetie.”

𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮 Birds in the tree sing

Their dayful of song

Why shouldn't we sing along?

I'm chipper all the day

Happy with my lot

How do I get that way?

Look at what I've got 𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮 

“You’ve got that little girl out there.” Rosie grabs him by the chin and stares down those radio dials. “Come on. Fifteen seconds now.” 

Fifteen seconds later, Alastor lay prone on the settee, concentrating on his breathing, while Rosie sews and bandages up his fingers. She makes little hums of sympathy as she works. By the end, he is exhausted but sane enough to function.

His fingers throb in pain when he holds the child tight to his chest. The usual flood of endorphins that come with a feed barely lifts his dismal mood. Content and full, the child drifts into a sound snooze.

“There. All’s well.” Rosie pats his arm with a smile.

“I should have left her at the hotel.” Alastor whispers. “Charlie would never -”

“Charlie is not her mother.” Rosie interrupts, firm as a concrete block. “You are.”

“I hurt her.” A traitorous tear escapes before he can clench his eyelids closed. His ears are pressed tight against his head.

Rosie huffs, as if exasperated. There is the sound of swishing skirts retreating and then returning. Then she pats his cheek and waits for his eyes to open again.

She holds one of his bloody nails. 

“Honey, look at that itty-bitty scratch on that girl’s face.” She holds the red claw near the child’s cheek. It is large in comparison. Alarmingly so. But…“There is no way this big ol’ thing could leave such a lil’ mark.” Her expression softens and she pats his cheek again with her free hand. “Alastor, honey, we missed the mitts after her bath, that’s all.”

The mitts.

Yes, he forgot about the mitts.

Rosie had brought over several fresh pairs as part of her daily offerings. Alastor knows babies tend to scratch their faces. Charlie had told him. Rosie had told him. In his panic, he…forgot.

Alastor had not hurt his child after all.

Oh.

He clears his throat. 

She kisses his cheek. “You certainly are a man. Foolhardy. Thickheaded. Impulsive. Now!” She puts her hands on her ample hips. “Are we gonna talk about that baby’s father or should we go on pretending Hell ain't hot?” 

Alastor swallows his impulse to obfuscate. He owed Rosie that much. Besides, she only plays the fool to her advantage. 

“You saw the mark.” He says, turning into the back of the settee, with the child settled comfortably in his arms. “You’ve seen her.”

“I did. I have.” Rosie confirms. She sits on the backless end of the settee and rubs his knee affectionately. “Does Charlie know? Does he?”

“No. And this discussion is over.” Alastor’s mood darkens further and he buries his nose into the warm smell of the child. 

“Honey-”

He cranks his head around, nearly 180° in rotation, unnatural - and very intentional in that unnaturalness.

“This discussion is over.” He repeats, his voice divided into many (including several screams of the damned).

The child squeaks in protest against his chest and begins to nuzzle about for a second serving.

Rosie, brow furrowed in concern, reluctantly drops the issue.

And golden scratch fades away within the hour.

Notes:

Still no name.

Alastor has to get his shit together.

See ya'll Sunday/Monday

Chapter 7

Notes:

Just a short (king) chapter. It was very fun to write another POV but I miss Alastor. Will return with our regularly scheduled sinner POV on Friday.

Lucifer has a list of 100 sound reasons why he despises Heaven (and why you should too!).

And he did not even put the whole “casting him into the dark pit known as Hell and forcing him to rule over millions upon millions of just the worst people while he lost his sense of self and purpose in the universe” on the list!

No no no! The number one, absolutely most awful thing about Heaven is how fucking cold it is.

Like, seriously - 10,000 years later and not a space heater in sight. Is the Big Guy Upstairs worried about the electric bill? Just did the whole “let there be light” bit but not "let there be central heating?” 

My kingdom for a thermostat, amirite? 

Focus. Focus. Michael is - once again - talking. Lucifer would describe it as blabbering but that gives the impression that Michael is silly. Or fun. Which, you know, he is not.

“It is not practical, nor feasible, to codify every sin in existence and disseminate it to all of mankind. The split in theology complicates matters considerably. The hiring process for prophets will not allow it on our timeline, in our budget, or in the interests of freedom of religion, which continues to be necessary for several upcoming key human conflicts earthside.” Mr. Holy-Michael-Saintliest-of-All-the-Archangels-Tiny-Dick-Loser drones on. Like, actually drones. Drones! The archangel might know fancy-pants legalese but knows not the meaning of “inflection” or “intonation” to save a conversation. 

Yawn.

“And it is not in the budget!” Raphael anxiously mutters, his perfectly polished powder blue painted fingernails tapping on his calculator in record speed. The white puff ball on his lap barks - at least, Lucifer thinks it is a bark. He is not entirely sure it’s a dog with all that puffy poofiness - in sympathy with the overstrung archangel. 

“You sure had the budget for it 2,000 years ago.” Lucifer points out. “Twelve hundred plus pages of, what, lists of baby names and contradictions?”

Raphael gasps dramatically, “That is the Holy Scripture!” 

Lucifer swivels his chair to stare at Michael once more.

“So, what was the part with you and the flaming sword standing over the body of Satan? Like, have you ever even met Satan? HELLO! He’s literally like, a huge fucking monster dragon who likes flaming swords. He eats them like they’re fucking flamin’ hot cheetos.”

Michael folds his manicured - french-tips -  hands in front of him, “We cannot approve addendums to Holy Scripture in this forum.” He argues.

“Huh, hmmm okay, and what forum approved your self-insert He-Man fanfiction?” 

“I did not say I had a flaming sword! The damned Renaissance artists did it!” Michael, icy composure cracking, ticks the volume of his voice a notch.

Lucifer points to one of the stained glass windows lining the walls. Showing Michael in his younger years - flowy deep blue robes and all. Wielding a sword. A sword that is aflaming.

(He would insult the idea of stained glass windows in a conference room but, honestly, Lucifer has them all over his palace. But they are Hell's Greatest Hits. And way cooler. And more colorful. And bigger.)

“I did say it was a bit much, Brother.” Gabriel says on a yawn, eyes blinking slowly and lazily. But, when Michael turns his gaze back to his notepad, Gabriel gives Lucifer a companionable wink.

“We cannot rewrite Holy Scripture!” Michael’s voice ticks up another notch.

“No. You just leave out the parts you don’t like.” Lucifer challenges.

“We were over budget!” Raphael whines, in tandem with a low pitched moan from his fluffy animalish…thingy.

“Raphael!” Michael snaps.

“Ah Ha!” Lucifer slaps the table with his right hand as he points an accusing finger with his left. “Cutting corners. Business as usual up here, huh?”

“At least we are present in our roles, King of Hell.” 

“Well, you can stick your ivory tower right up your-”

“Boys!” Sera shouts, voice cracking. The celestial eyes on her wings glare at the three princely archangels and the King of Hell. She clears her throat and settles herself back to her humanoid form. “My apologies. My princes. King Lucifer. Perhaps we might attend to another matter of dispute if we cannot reach a compromise here?” Sera floats up three documents: a papyrus scroll, a paper ripped from a legal pad, and a receipt from Ass-modeus. “Trade between worlds. Malicious nuisances between Heaven and Hell, alternately title 'Cessation of the 'Prank War' of the 13th century.' Or Limits on Behavior During Exorcisms Between Heaven and Summoned Demons.”

Lucifer doubts they will reach a compromise on anything at this rate. 

It was a bad idea. He knows that. But it was his only idea and Lucifer is not especially known historically for having a Plan B. Hell, usually he does not have a Plan A, ya know? He is more of a go-with-the-flow kinda guy. Or a go-with-what-the-missus-says- happy-wife-happy-life kinda guy.

So, a meeting in Heaven. Not one of his funner - more fun? - ideas. Probably should have left a note “ BRB - Just negotiating EVERY CONTRACT EVER BETWEEN HEAVEN AND HELL. Don’t wait up!”

Cue camera pan to the literal mountain of stone tablets, papyrus, scrolls, stained napkins, and sticky notes. 

Hey, sometimes the best ‘fuck-you’ is in one’s choice of medium for legal filings.

It became very apparent this whole meeting would really fucking suck when his three little brothers came into the room with their fancy three piece suits and white leather briefcases. Michael, chief archangel himself, chose a deep navy suit that matched his eyes. Gabriel, Lucifer’s former favorite brother before he turned into a traitorous shit, wore a sea-green suit that matched his eyes. And Raphael, the youngest, the archangel who had to have been the prototype for OCD and Severe Anxiety Disorder, had on a powder blue suit that matched his eyes…

You know, call Lucifer crazy but there might be a theme here.

Heaven is nothing if not unoriginal.

So his three little brothers, the archangels, the messengers of their dad and beloved saints of mankind, and Lucifer, shunned and most hated being in all creation, all sat down to decide the future of human souls.

And Sera, the Head Seraphim of Heaven, played babysitter. Or “mediator” as she likes to call it.

The fact that she is even here shows that Heaven knows it has really fucked up this time. Royally. They know it. Lucifer knows it. Going after Charlie, a hellborn princess, killing Dazzle, a hellborn demon, and having two exterminations in a calendar year…three strikes and you’re out, oh buddy boy! 

Locked in a game where Lucifer holds the aces, the breach clause, but Heaven can still win the match, Lucifer would have preferred to negotiate with the seraphim alone.

Not the straight laced, try hard loser archangels with their judgy faces.

“Samael? Brother!” Gabriel had called out, breaking formation to step forward, as if for a closer look, when Lucifer had first walked into the conference room. 

The King of Hell, forgetting himself too, smiled brightly at his little brother. 

And Gabriel recoiled.

“Oh, Sweet Heavenly Father, what happened to you?” 

Ah yes, the teeth. 

It went downhill from there.

Lucifer used to babysit these half-ass angel wannabes. Now Michael references the Rules, and Raphael click-clacks on his calculator, and Gabriel watches it all with a detached sleepiness that is just as unhelpful and annoying as Lucifer actually tries to do something to help humanity for the first time in 10,000 fucking years.

The unmitigated gall of these posers. The freezing cold conference room is sterile with its monotone gold design. Gold table. Gold chairs. Gold floor. Gold ficus. And three pretty little golden archangels in their pristine blue suits with their - oh, look, wanna guess? - golden buttons and watch chains. 

Then there are the windows. The stained glass windows depicting Heaven’s Greatest Hits. Lucifer gives credit where credit is due. As the nominal King of Hell, he has seen A LOT of torture and suffering. Wow, sinners got real creative when they realized demonic bodies are super resilient and barbed wire literally grows out of the ground. Anyway, Heaven’s torture has always been a bit more psychological (if you discount, you know, the whole damnation in Hell part). 

So, of course, they sat Lucifer directly across from the stained glass window depicting the Fall.

Do it for Charlie.

“Very well.” Lucifer assumes his best “in-charge” tone, deepening his frown and lowering his purple lids. “Let’s get down to brass tacks: I got a realm to rule.” He tips up his hat, and he knows his crown and snake will gleam golden in Heaven’s fluorescent lights. Hopefully, a bit of that shine will hit the apple just right. “Redemption. No need to write a new holy script. Charlie has the program in place. It works. Let’s make it official.” 

“Correlation does not causation make, King of Hell.” Michael chastises. 

The little bitch.

“Oh ho! Hang on! My daughter starts a hotel focused on redemption. Snake boy gets redeemed. First one in 10,000 fucking years. Don’t even try to call it a coincidence, douchebag!” 

“King Lucifer!” Sera snaps. “We agreed at the start. Mutual respect.”

“Fine. Prince Douchebag. Oh, come on - that is funny! Don’t give me that look, Sera!”

Which, it is funny, and no one is appreciating his joke. That would have killed in Hell. He thinks. 

But he doesn’t get out much any more.

Maybe it isn’t funny? It does tend to be medically problematic, and is an extended metaphor that a product intended to be inserted into a vagina is disgusting, or embarrassing, because a vagina is disgusting or embarrassing. And Lucifer loves vaginas! Yessirree, loves them lots. Call him a hipster, but he’s been a big fan from the start. Actually, douches are problematic because the natural production of fluid from a vagina is - where was this going again?

Oh yeah. No, fuck that, Lucifer is hilarious.

When did Saint Peter get here? Lucifer met him on the way in. Cute kid. Screams a bit like a girl though.

The kid flies over to Michael and hands him a golden note. Then, without making eye contact with the Devil, flutters back out the door. 

They all hear him loudly exhale - a high squeaky sound - the moment the door clicks shut.

Michael glances at the note, refolds his hands, and smiles a saccharine smile at Lucifer. 

“Go on.” The archangel says.

The Devil grits his teeth. “The contract allowing the exterminations was clear. You broke it. Its purpose was to get souls out of Hell. My daughter’s redemption plan does that and increases Heaven’s numbers. It gives sinners hope. It gives them a reason to behave.” He magics up a pile of philosophies. Locke. Rousseau. Hobbes. The basics. “The humans figured it out. Why haven’t you?”

“Excuse me? Is there not Heaven or Hell? Eternal afterlife? The ultimate reason for good behavior? That has never been a secret, Brother.” Gabriel points out.

“But it is! Humans are curious, they are fragile, and they make mistakes. To err is human!” Lucifer lets out a deep breath to calm his rising passion. Heaven was never the place for passion. “You gave them a book of stories and pretended it was an instruction manual. For nearly all of creation, only a select few could even read Scripture.”

“One does not need to read Holy Scripture to know not to hurt others, not to steal, not to kill.” Gabriel says, voice quiet.

“Not all start on the same path, Brother, and it is a short road to Hell.” Lucifer says, equally quiet.

Michael leans forward, chest nearly touching his clasped hands. “Certainly it is a pleasure to hear the Serpent argue that mankind’s free will is nothing of the sort.” He waves away Lucifer’s impending argument. “But manners come first. Let me be the first here to congratulate you on the birth of your daughter, King of Hell.” Michael says, all sweetness and near convincing sincerity.

“You’re about 200 years too late there, bud.” Lucifer snorts. 

If Lucifer is serpentine, then Michael is positively canine with that wolfish grin. 

“Not Princess Charlotte.”

Lucifer cannot figure out this move. It does not make sense in the game he thought they had been playing. 

“Oh, Lucifer,” Michael simpers. “Let us return to the subject of broken contracts, shall we?”

If Lucifer crosses his arms at that point, it is not a way to comfort himself. It is not an instinctual effort to cover his internal center mass, to protect his organs. It is not done in fear of losing the game.

It is because it is fucking cold in Heaven.

Chapter 8

God may have rested on the Seventh day but Rosie, hungry Overlord and busybody that she is, came in with an extra oof of energy.

In addition to her usual daily provisions, she carried a ginormous wicker basket covered in large bows and tissue paper. Before Alastor could voice the question, she held up one bony finger and returned to her packard automobile to bring no less than three more ginormous baskets into the tiny kitchen. 

A-tisket, a-tasket, indeed!

“A touch much, my dearest Rosie?” Alastor ventures. He conjures up the child’s bassinet in the middle of the chaos to help his friend manage the sorting. 

The child, stubborn thing she is, begins her overture to a tantrum.

“Hush, sweeting.” Rosie orders, stuffing a skull shaped binky into the infant’s mouth. 

“Have you made another arrangement with Mammon, dear?” Alastor asks with a snicker.

Rosie glares.

It had been a most delicious disaster at the start of her time as an overlord. Communication had never been banned between the rings, merely discouraged. Lucifer, head Sin of the Pride Ring in addition to King of Hell, had been out of sight and out of mind for decades at that point. Mammon, head Sin of the Greed Ring, had been looking to expand his business ventures into the culinary kind. However, unlike Asmodeus, head Sin of the Lust Ring and owner of several shops in Pentagram City, Mammon had troubles paying his suppliers. 

Rosie, fresh as a rotting corpse, had been unaware. 

Mammon seduced her with gifts and promises. Boxes of ribbons and fabrics, flowers and the like. Rosie, charmed, signed the contract. Hundreds of pounds of sinner flesh was shipped out. When quarter day came and went, Rosie’s coffers were empty, her stock was depleted, her people were starving. 

Long story short, Rosie cemented her place in Hell’s history as the first Overlord to take a Sin to Hell’s Court. Hell truly hath no fury like a woman scorned! Satan, head Sin of the Wrath Ring and Judge, had the obvious pleasure of punishing a fellow Sin. Lucifer was forced to wake up from his beauty sleep to sign a royal decree that all inter-ring contracts and travel permits have his personal seal attached. Mammon mostly just shrugged his shoulders and left a lot of popcorn kernels on the court’s benches. 

Rosie, while flattered by the annual basket of toasted brimstone sent anonymously by a certain Sin of Wrath, did not much like to discuss her youthful blunder.

“No, and I’ll thank you to keep that grin this side of courteous, Mister!” Her voice softened. “This is from the hotel.”

Alastor might have guessed. 

The gifts are wrapped atrociously. Too much glitter and streamers and ribbons. He can see from the outlines alone what each gift holds. The distinct shape of a coffee mug, an awkwardly wrapped rattle, a veritable mountain of onesies (yes, wrapped so that the package perfectly outlines a onesie). Alastor’s grin cannot help but soften itself with how childish they all can be.

From Charlie he receives the coffee mug with an admittedly darling set of antlers carved into the side, several pairs of thick socks, a pack of coupons for “babysitting” services, a box of blood chocolates, and what Alastor and Rosie finally surmise is a baby wrap.

From Vaggie, he receives a record from some woman named Selena.

From Husk, he receives a jug of moonshine

From Angel, he receives a surprisingly well made pair of thick, silk black gloves with a note stating the silk was purchased elsewhere, 

but I’d be thrilled to make it homemade in white for you, mommy ;)

There is a large roach on a stick from Niffty that Alastor sets to the side for burning.

Then there are the gifts for the child. More than either of the overlords which to count. Clothing, toys, frivolity galore. Alastor notes that the style is understated, sticking to his own signature colors.

Underneath the pile, at the very bottom, is a radio so small Alastor could keep it in his pocket. He realizes it is actually a music box, opening at a crease along the side. He winds it up and the distinct chime of bells plays an instrumental of the song “You’re Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile!".

The child coos, almost laughing, with the song.

“What a pretty little thing!” Rosie says, putting a hand on her friend’s shoulder. 

Alastor stares at the smiling face of the child and smiles softly in return.

“Yes.” He agrees.

Later that day, after Rosie had bid him her goodbyes with promises to bring some of her famous sinner soup the next day, Alastor walks around the cottage with the child strapped to his chest. He tidies the increasingly crowded home as he goes. A shadow dusts away a new cobweb from the windowsill. Another sweeps around the fireplace. 

Shadow puts out the universal signal for “stop” and flies down to grab a note beneath a pile of receiving blankets.

“What is this?” Alastor mutters to himself, taking the note. 

 

From: Vaggie

Alastor -

It was real shitty how it went down at the end. 

Alastor nearly crumples the note at that. Did she truly mean to place the blame on him? Luckily, his eye catches the words We were wrong and he continues reading.

We were wrong. Charlie just tries to help so much and she majorly overstepped this time. We all overstepped. It’s just that you are always such an asshole. You act like nothing can hurt you. You act like a big bad overlord who is so much better than us all. You are rude and, you know, such an asshole. 

Alastor feels distinctly attacked and wonders if this is leading up to an apology after all. The fallen angel did have a knack for blaming most problems in Hell on Alastor.

But we forgot that you were human once too. 

We are sorry. I am sorry. You were helping without thanks but when we helped you, and got no thanks, we got mad. I said awful things to you. I am sorry, Alastor.

Charlie does not want you to know this but it has been real rough week here. You did a lot. Sinners have checked out. A lot of them. As much as I hate to say this - we need you back.

 

And there's the motive! Ha, she nearly had him! The greedy little thing wants his labor and servitude once more. He confirms there is nothing more of substance to the note and burns it to a crisp between his bandaged fingers, the cloth of the wrapping blackening at the ends.

Is that what these gifts were for? To butter Alastor up? To charm him as Mammon did Rosie? Or how Vox had gobbled up the crumbs of sweetness Alastor had left him in the early days? Alastor is no overlord new to flattery. They would have to try much harder to get him back under their thumb! 

The child snuffles against his once crisp shirt.

Alastor was too busy now to play tutor to Hell's imperfect, peppy princess.

In fact, he had a new pupil to focus on.

---

Alastor had been around enough women in his time with the living to know the hazards of child rearing. The sleepless nights, the snot noses, the expense, the mess, the noise.

Mimzy had talked his ear off during the “on” periods of her on-again-off-again take to motherhood. Usually her complaints involved how her fatherless brood gummed the works with her latest honey or how her own mother was bleeding her dry to support the children, but Alastor generally understood motherhood to be an arduous task - hence, Mimzy’s avoidance. 

No one had mentioned how boring it could be. 

Sure, there were the hours the child cried incessantly or sucked his tits raw, there were the dozen diaper changes in the day, her insistence on napping on his chest as he paced the floor, and all that fuss, but there were also the hours in between, when she really did not do anything. It is a paradox. Alastor cannot do anything worthwhile - maim, burglarize, arson - but he certainly is not doing anything in particular.

In her second week of life, there are times in which she just…stares at him…expectantly. 

Like she is doing now.

“Well, my dear, two weeks you have spent in Hell without a single kill. I am afraid you are behind the grind at that one.” Alastor mostly talks for personal entertainment. The child, while an attentive enough audience, is hardly up to scratch for a conversation partner. “Of course, your old man here had a bit of practice before his kiss off.” She makes a gurgle noise. “Why, thank you! It is nice to be appreciated.” Another gurgle as she studies her fingers, twisting and turning them about. “Oh, I could not possibly! Well, I suppose it is better the booshwash our friend here provides…”

Shadow gives an impressive mimicry of rolling its eyes, the top of its sockets angled upwards, arms folded.

Alastor smirks. He adjusts the child on his lap so he could prop his feet up on the footstool, knees bent so her bum fit in the crook between his stomach and thighs. Her toes dig into the space beneath his prominent ribs. She gives him an experimental kick with a heel to his stomach. Not finding satisfaction in that, she returns to studying her fingers, little tongue jutted out in concentration. 

“Let’s see. Hmmm. Ah, yes.” Alastor throws a recording of shuffling papers through the air, followed by a ding! ding! ding! to signify his selection. He pulls a Glenn Miller record for a little mood music, throws it on the radio waves, and begins. 

“New Orleans, 1925. Ahh, that really was the place to be! The first radio station just started in the city and it was enchanting. I must have spent hours begging my way in! They let me sweep the floors after hours and the boys taught me enough to get started. My mother about blew her wig when I opened a station right in my apartment on Frenchmen Street. But that, my dear, is another story. It was a club night for me, and Mimzy’s latest joe quit upon finding her behind the bar with a, ahh, a new honey, so my slot at the piano was spent instead sitting at the door watching out for g-men.

"We always spoke easy at Mimzy’s joint, you see. 

"Anyway, this twit came round to bother a pair of ladies minding their own. I judged him a wheat - er, a man from out of town - and that spelled trouble with a capital T. These ladies had not a light for his cigarette and he kept jamming a gasper at them, if you forgive the expression. Suggesting they leave the joint and begging them for a dance.”

The child sneezes and Alastor uses the cuff of his shirt to wipe up her chin.

“Indeed, pet. Very rude. It was worse when I caught him slip a micky in their gin. I told him to scram. He puffed up, threw a punch - horrible form, I recall - but a twist by Mimzy’s beau and a gentle shove my yours truly and the wheat was out back in the alley. Our tale could have ended there, but no. The varmint threatened to call the authorities. Mimzy batted her pretty lashes and I was off.”

Alastor strokes one of the little feet against his ribs, the bandage around his finger tickling the child’s sensitive skin. The child wiggles her toes and he smiles indulgently in return.

“I caught up with him at Decatur. Rarely do I resort to my bare hands when hunting, but needs must. I had not planned on adding to my tally that night so strangulation was on the menu. He choked on his accusations against my friend. He scratched at my hands terribly and it really was my start to wearing gloves as a daily accessory. One never does know when opportunity knocks on the door! Vile scum, preying on women, threatening an entrepreneur and all our fun!”

Alastor threads his pinky finger between the little toes and wiggles. The child kicks herself free and gets a good hit at his hand. 

He laughs.

“Very well - he was on my radar already. He just sped up his demise when he pulled that last stunt. But the devil is in the details, my dear. As I was saying, he scratched at my hands something terrible so I figured there was not much bad that can’t be made worse and I shoved two fingers right down his throat. I clawed at his esophagus and felt the gagging muscles rip beneath my nails. I punctured through that tough muscle. I haven’t a fathom how I managed it. I just was so, so angry at this vile wretch, coming after those gals and then Mimzy who worked her fingers to the bone to keep that joint running. He bit right through my hand to the bone - fueled as much by adrenaline as I.”

Alastor looks down at a glowing green — just under his knuckle.

“It was worth it. When his body fell into a stinking puddle, I knew it was always worth it. I gifted him to the Mississippi and returned to Mimzy’s. She cleaned me up best she could - pouring some of her precious gin on my wounds - and danced with me the rest of the night.”

He sighs, remembering how they laughed, giddy and alive.

“It was lovely.”

When he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend he is still there. The low lit dance floor, the piano pounding in the corner, Mimzy’s body slippery with sequins and sweat. The shared glass of gin. The oppressive heat of too many bodies shoved into a too small space. 

But he opens them and he is back in Hell. 

“Well, it was.” He tells the child. She presses on the glowing scar with a clumsy thumb. “Murder simply does not carry the same thrill here, my dear. Not when your victims restore themselves in a matter of hours. It was never about power before. Hell changed the game.” He lets his smile spread a bit wider. The stitches pull at the edges and he can see their glow at the corners of his eyes. “But I changed the rules.”

The child stares at him, unafraid of whatever she sees in his face.

"No, no, that is a story for another day, little one. Now, would you like to hear the tale of old Alastor introducing the wheat's nasty brother to the alligators? Of course you do. Well, it was about a week after the wretch surfaced downriver and, of course, the papers ran the story in syndication in the major cities..."

---

Rosie stays for lunch one day.

She has never had a knack for subtlety. It is one of her best features, in Alastor's opinion. He cannot fathom why those in power cannot be more blunt with what they want. And, yes, you may call Alastor a hypocrite but one of his best features is maintaining an aura of mystery so he considers himself an exception to his own rule. Besides, he believes he is rather open about his desire for souls and/or power. 

So, Alastor is hardly surprised when she broaches up the topic of the hotel over finger sandwiches and headcheese tartine. 

"Charlie, sweet lamb that she is, is just a mess. She came by the emporium just yesterday in tears. An absolute mess. About tore my black heart to bits." Rosie confides with a genuine furrow of concern in her brow. "She cannot make head nor tails of those books. And that gal of hers was no better - fell asleep right on my window seat, don't you know! I had to chase off some of the more, eh, enthusiastic children with a broom. Little buzzards, ha!"

Alastor makes a noise in the general proximity of a laugh, and throws out a laugh track for good manners.

"Well, that little maid has gone on strike so Charlie is playing hostess, manager, and cleaning crew."

Ah, yes, Niffty does have that history of social activism, he supposes. He cannot fathom the cause she supports here in Hell, but he is certain it has to do with entomology. He does hope, for Charlie's sake, that she has not chained herself to the railing or some such.

"And there was something about a ring? No, no, not a proposal - she has assured Ol' Rosie she has no plans for matrimony at this time - it was more in the vein of trafficking illicit substances through therapy circles? Or something. Honestly, the girl was crying so hard at that point that I could barely make out two words in ten."

Alastor takes a sip of his tea, pleased to his core to hear of the princess's sufferings. Oh, what delightful recompense! Of course it would fall apart without him! So he smiles like the cat that got the cream and revels in Rosie's gossip.

"Lost half the residents in a week! Poor darling!"

"Yes, yes, how awful!" Alastor agrees with a chuckle.

Rosie shoots him a glare and jabs at finger at him, "None a that, now! You know the princess is good people!" She turns back to stirring her tea, suddenly very interested in her cup. "She could use some help, you know."

"My dear, if you are proposing to cut down your visits to my humble abode to do charity work for royalty, I shant lay claim on your time..."

"You are a caution, my darling Alastor." She snorts. 

"Guilty as charged!"

"Be serious, Al. You know I can't come here forever, honey. Just like you can't stay forever. It's not your nature."

"Neither is servitude, my dear. You said it once before. I have her now." He suddenly finds his own cup to be absolutely fascinating. "Rosie, I have to protect her. They..."

A thin hand covers his own. "Honey, I know you do. And I know what they did. It set my own head spinning at the sheer audacity of it all. But that girl over there in the hotel? She needs you too. You know you stepped up when her father would not. They made a mistake in underestimating you. Ha, didn't we all, at some point? You are something special, Alastor. You protect what's yours. That hotel - I don't think for a second that you were just there for kicks. Whatever it was you went for, you found something more."

"Rosie-"

"I'm talking now, sweetie." She takes both of his hands in her own and a thumb swipes across the edge of his bandages. He reluctantly meets the black holes of her eye sockets. "I know you better than I knew most of my husbands. You know me, good and bad. So you know when I give you advice that I give it straight. You are not perfect, Alastor."

He opens his mouth to deliver a witticism but a hard squeeze on his still healing finger tips silences him.

"You can slice up a corpse with the best of them, but you've never raised a child before. Ol' Rosie will tell you, and you'll listen, that it is no walk in the park. You will make mistakes. But you make the wrong one..." She swallows, hard, and shakes her head. "and it ain't you who suffers. Your Rosie learned this lesson hard in her time. It takes a village, Alastor, to raise a child." She releases his hands to reach across the table and take his face into her palms. "Alastor, honey, you have that village waiting for you back at that hotel. They are flawed, and they are messy, and they may drive you to up a wall, but they are yours. And that girl, Charlie, I mean, I think she needs some support from someone who cares." Rosie lets go of his face and returns to her tea. "Or, at least, an ambitious overlord willing to guide her potential."

Whatever words Alastor might have in response to this little speech are stuck in his throat. He tries to clear it, several times. He takes a long sip of tea. But the words drip down his throat and sit heavy in his chest as Rosie's own words weigh on his mind. He tries to speak but the shattered sounds of a broken record come out instead.

They finish the meal in silence.

---

It was already shaping up to be a rough night.

Alastor made the mistake of indulging in a long afternoon nap with the little one. They woke near suppertime, both ate their fill, and Alastor thought they might drift back to sleep until the child voiced her disagreement.

He tries shadow play. 

She squeezes her eyes shut as she wails.

He tries to silence her with several of her preferred binkies. 

She launches each an impressive distance across the floor.

He tries rocking her to sleep in a conjured rocker. 

She vomits on his shirt.

Finally, he tries the near fail-proof method of filling her belly to induce drowsiness.

The child, near shaking with frustration, moves her head sharply away from Alastor’s body. Her puckered lips split wide into a wail as he attempts to maneuver her back into her preferred nursing position. Angrily, she snaps her lips back into a pucker and clamps down on his abused nipple.

Alastor snarls in pain.

She chomps down, toothless, once more. In the dim light of the false moon, Alastor sees a droplet of blood mix with the creamy white milk against her chin, but the child does not attempt to drink further. The clock on the mantle ticks. Shadow scratches its head in thought. With a burst of energy Alastor himself does not have, Shadow circles near the ceiling and then waves its long arms like a conductor, a baton appearing unfurling within his hand to add to the performance.

“Worth a try, I suppose.” Alastor mutters. 

He sends a wave of static energy through the air to summon a tombstone radio in the corner of the nest. But Shadow swoops down in front of him and shakes its head. It brings a long, shadowy hand to its thin neck and rubs up and down. A red glow appears at the throat and bursts, spilling red wisps into the dark room. 

Alastor yawns as a response.

He flicks a twinkling lullaby onto the radio. Shadow attempts to flick off the radio but Alastor drags it backwards and casts it to the corner. Shadow lowers its ears, pouting. With a satisfied huff, Alastor settles into the nest, cradling the child among a dip in the pile of silken cloth.. His eyes drift shut.

And snap open when the child screeches.

For a being entirely dependent on Alastor’s power, Shadow is rather too smug.

“Very well.” Alastor growls and scoops the child back to his chest. She settles against his heart, head fitting into the crook of his neck. Tears wet his collarbone as they fall from her sharp chin. He shushes her as he rubs her back. 

Hiccupping, she quiets her wail into a discontented mewl.

Alastor flips through the discography within his brain. Tired, he limits the search to his time earthside, his human memories. Then, without instrumental accompaniment, he croons softly above her:

 𝅘𝅥🎵𝅘𝅥Tho' the days are long, twilight sings a song,

Of the happiness that used to be, 𝅘𝅥🎵𝅘𝅥

The child lifts her head and Alastor carefully repositions her to lay along his long forearm. Shining blue eyes focus on his face, studying him, listening to him. 

🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵 Soon my eyes will close, soon I'll find repose,

And in dreams you're always near to me. 🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵

Alastor casts a false starry sky above them. The light it emits takes on a blue tint as it brightens the room. Taken from his memory, a ghost of wind shivers through the illusion, unseen but felt by its master. It is a full moon, always, in Alastor’s night. 

Just like his last. 

The bright light of the moon is interrupted by the shadow of a buck, standing proud. A fawn, clumsy and energetic, leaps into the light, weaving between the buck’s legs. The buck leans down and nuzzles the fawn’s neck with his head. 

𝅘𝅥🎵𝅘𝅥 I'll see you in my dreams, hold you in my dreams,

Someone took you out of my arms, still I feel the thrill of your charms 𝅘𝅥🎵𝅘𝅥

The child reaches toward the shadow work and Alastor neatly catches the tiny fingers between his own. They wrap around his pointer finger and squeeze. He brings the digits to his lips for a kiss. Then he bends his head to kiss the top of hers. 

🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵Lips that once were mine, tender eyes that shine,

They will light my way tonight, I'll see you in my dreams.🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵

Her eyelids drift downward, fluttering twice in a fruitless attempt to stay open, and then - finally - close. Her breathing calms into the deep, predictable pattern of sleep. Alastor, exhausted himself, stares at her for several minutes. 

What does he hope to gain from this?

The child is entirely reliant on him for safety, food, and shelter. He can hardly expect to continue on his climb through the hierarchy of Hell with this little one nipping at his chest. This cottage is already driving him stir-crazy but his instincts scream at the thought of abandoning this safe haven. 

She needs him.

But he needs more.

His mind conjures up an image. The Radio Demon in his tower, apron around his waist, burp rag on his shoulder, a bassinet being rocked by one of his tentacles. Milk soaking through his shirt. Vomit and drool covering the sensitive equipment, causing electric sparks. Hell laughing at him. Vox taking over all of Hell’s media, nullifying the power of radio forever. Alastor losing his status as an overlord while the child clings to his trousers, crying for him, for attention, for everything .

But the very thought of abandoning the child is unbearable.

Damn these instincts.

There is nothing to be done for it now. He is exhausted and it is very nearly morning. It is so human of him to worry in the twilight hours when no useful action can be taken. He is embarrassed of himself. No, there is nothing to be done but to climb into the soft nest of blankets and cushions and to curl around his young. 

---

It feels like no more than the blink of an eye when Alastor is awoken again by soft sounds of movement in the kitchen and the smell of coffee. It is difficult to tell time in Hell, but Alastor’s innate understanding of light and shadow gives him an edge. It is early morning, still barely after dawn. He has barely slept more than two or three hours.

He hears the scrape of a chair and aggressive bubble of the percolator. Rosie must be early and now waiting for Alastor to wake. Well, his mother raised a gentleman and a gentleman does not leave a lady waiting! 

The child, sprawled across a silken cushion, half covered by Alastor’s coat, does not stir as he rises. He allows her to keep his clothing. It is only Rosie, after all, and she has seen him in far worse states of dress after the annual Cannibal Town ball.

The smell of coffee is enticing and Alastor nearly floats out the bedroom door.

“Good morning, my dear! You are an angel in Hell to know…” His chipper voice clips off abruptly. 

Lucifer, in full demonic form and royal regalia, eyes and horn blazing fire, sits at the kitchenette. 

“An angel in Hell?” The King of Hell growls. Flames slip through his teeth with each word. “Well, that is the problem at hand, isn’t it?” 

Smoke billows from the slits of his nostrils. 

Alastor reaches blindly backwards for the door handle, to return to his baby, to ensure he is between her and this threat, but his palm meets scalding hot hellfire and he jerks his hand away. 

“No. It is time we talk. Sit.” The King of Hell commands.

And, gripped by a compulsion so thick it can only be magic, Alastor walks to the table and sits across from the King.

Notes:

See ya Sunday or Monday. Depends on how my allergies do over the weekend. 🤧

Chapter 9

Notes:

Happy Mother's Day to those who celebrate! I finished up my editing way ahead of my wildest expectations. My own kiddos decided to give me a weekend of writing for my Mother's Day gift!

Enjoy!

Golden shackles appear around his wrists the moment his bottom hits the seat. Alastor would complain, if not for the thick pad of duct tape obstructing half his face. For good measure, and with a flicker of his nimble fingers, The King of Hell adds several golden chains around Alastor’s ankles.

Good talk, Alastor thinks, half-delirious as cold panic freezes his brain. There is a mere door and himself, bound and helpless, between his child and this predator. She is sleeping in their nest, right out in the open. It would take no more than a moment…

Alastor swallows and forces himself to breathe through his nostrils.

“Do you think we are playing a fucking game?” The Devil growls, voice low and dangerous. “No. There is too much on the line. We had Heaven on its knees. We had a chance. Do you know what that’s like? To have a single fucking chance in ten thousand fucking years? And, in my one moment of victory, you ruin it. I get that you don’t care about anyone, that it’s like your thing, but there are millions of souls at stake here. Souls not even born yet. And we had one fucking chance!” 

The flames surrounding the King of Hell rise higher, spreading past the little kitchen into the living room. Black smoke billows at the ceiling. Alastor tests the strength of his bonds. They tighten further and cut thin lines of bloody bracelets at their edges. He screams muffled curses against the tape.

The King rises from the table.

His feet pound the ground with each step. The tiles crack underfoot, spidering closer and closer to Alastor until the Devil is a breath away. Six wings expand in a showy flap, feeding the flames around them. Sulfur and brimstone fills Alastor’s nose and he cannot even cough to clear it from his throat. He chokes on the Devil’s smoke. Sour bile hits his mouth and he struggles to swallow it down.

The Devil assaults Alastor’s senses. 

He stares at Alastor with glowing red eyes of hellfire, holding his gaze through compulsion, causing tears to cloud his vision and stream down his cheeks. The golden shackles continue to cut off his circulation. He can hardly breathe. The taste of brimstone and bile and ash is thick on his tongue and coats his throat. The crackle of hellfire and the Devil’s heavy breathing fills his head so he cannot think -

Then it all just...stops.

“Where is she, Alastor?” Lucifer asks quietly.

The Devil is again merely Lucifer, small and unassuming. 

What a question. With only two enclosed spaces in the small cottage, and Alastor’s frantic attempt to return to the bedroom, there is no mystery as to where she is. So, Alastor looks between the words to find the real question. Lucifer is clearly not asking for her location.

Lucifer is asking for her.

He stands too close, jaw tense, brow lowered. 

Waiting. 

Alastor pointedly looks down at the duct tape and rolls his eyes.

“Oh, right! Sorry!” 

In a flash, Alastor’s mouth is free to give Lucifer a most heartfelt, “Fuck you.”

“Where is she?” The King repeats, unphased. “I won’t ask again.”

Alastor does not wonder how Lucifer knows of the child. Alastor does not deny her existence. There is a time to play the fool and now is clearly not it. 

“Leave.” Alastor hisses. His throat is raw and stinging from the earlier assault. The bonds tighten impossibly further around his wrists. He can feel the crack and pop of delicate bones giving way as the cuffs show him no mercy. “I won't ask you again.” 

Lucifer laughs. “Make me.” He says with a smirk.

As you wish.

The Radio Demon’s staff, unobtrusively leaning against the fireplace mantle, soars through the air and smacks into the left cuff. It shatters into a spray of gold. The demon catches the staff mid-air and frees his other limbs with three quick taps. 

Shadows burst through the Devil’s responding flames, attacking him head-on. He barely reacts, merely swipes at each as if a pesky gnat and they dissipate on contact. 

Changing tactics, the Radio Demon unfurls no less than a dozen tentacles, adding as much power as he dares to spare to solidify them, turning the Devil’s flames green and black in the process, and sends them at the Devil like harpoons. Several make contact. The King stands his ground until…he doesn’t. 

*✧* poof * ✧ *  

In his place, a small white snake - wearing the smallest, most ridiculous looking top hat that Alastor has ever seen - slithers across the floor, zig zagging between his ankles.

It rather defeats the point of giant tentacles. 

The Radio Demon tries to step on the serpent to no avail.

Instead, the Devil *✧*poofs*✧* into a white cat - top hat neat on his fluffy head - and scratches the ever-loving shit out of the Radio Demon’s leg through his trousers. 

Scccchhhhrreeeeeeeeeee!!!, the Radio Demon’s radio squeals, a noise something between sharp feedback and a record scratch.

So, more on reflex than strategy, the demon kicks the cat. 

It does make him feel a little better, thanks for asking.

The cat changes into an angry, white hawk in another *✧* poof *✧* of red smoke. The Radio Demon gets a mouthful of feathers as the hawk sinks fiery talons into his arm. He flails, trying to dislodge the bird, but it snaps its beak at him. Blood gushes from his temple. 

A smoky tendril whips the bird away. Feathers fly in its wake. Of course, and the Radio Demon is catching the pattern, the bird *✧*poofs*✧* into a poor imitation of a lemur - pink and white with a little top hat - and swings from the tendril with its tail.

When he lands, the King is once more (*✧*poof *✧* ) his usual diminutive self. 

“Enough.” He declares, and thumps his cane on the floor. 

The splintered ground under the Radio Demon’s feet quakes, deepening into chasms until he falls to his knees.

Alastor breathes hard.

“I don't want to hurt you. But I will, if I have to.” Lucifer says and offers a hand to Alastor.

Alastor hisses through his pain, baring his teeth in a rictus grin. Black ichor dribbles over his lips. It splashes onto floor. He spits some onto the King’s outstretched palm as an answer.

Lucifer removes a handkerchief from inside his coat and wipes off the offending liquid.

“Where is she, Alastor?”

“I thought… ha…hahaha!… I thought you would not ask again.” 

“Whatever.” Lucifer grumbles and turns on his heel.

Sometime in the fight, they switched positions. Alastor is no longer a barrier between the bedroom door and Lucifer. The flames have melted away the door knob, and the blackened remains of the door is ajar. 

A small, unmistakable cry can be heard through the static heavy air. Her timing, as usual, cannot be worse.

Alastor flings himself forward and grabs Lucifer’s ankles. 

No magic needed to grovel.

“You don’t need her.” He insists in a rasp.

“No,” the King of Hell agrees, “I don’t. But you know she cannot stay here, Alastor. They won’t let her. You had to have known.”

“Who? Who has greater say over her than I?” 

Lucifer kneels too, at that point, and the action forces Alastor to look into his eyes.

Her eyes, the blue bled red through damnation, wide and bright with fire in place of starlight.

“Angels belong in Heaven.” The Devil says. “She is one of them. And they want her.”

“Coward.” Alastor spits back. “She is mine, she of my flesh and blood, the child of a worthless sinner. Heaven is no place for her.”

“Al-”

“Coward!”

“Hell's teeth, Alastor - do you think I want to do this?!” Lucifer gives a little manic giggle. “I have to! Fuck free will - I have to.” 

Alastor does not drop Lucifer’s gaze. He stares with all the fury his body can contain. He hopes Lucifer can see his revulsion. He wants Lucifer to drown in his wrath. Let the King of Hell know himself to be a weak, sniffling coward.

Lucifer looks away first.

“Please, just listen, okay?” He pleads and draws in a shaky breath.

Then he goes quiet for a moment, spinning his apple-topped cane between his gloved fingers, avoiding Alastor’s accusing glare.

The moment stretches like taffy. The wailing continues behind them. Alastor nearly grinds his teeth to powder as he fights the urge to go to her, to protect her, to hold her against his heart and feel her own beat in time. 

Protect her. Don’t bring the threat to her. She must hide. Please, stop crying. Quiet. You must hide from the predator. Be safe, be quiet.

Shadow, hit by a bolt of Lucifer’s power, claws its way across the floor to the bedroom, leaving a trail of black ichor in its wake. The cries quiet down.

“It was after Charlie was born.” The King explains, his words carefully chosen, tempo slow and deliberate. “Heaven panicked. They did not think we could do it - have a baby, I mean. Heaven threatened Charlie. She was so tiny. Defenseless. Heaven already had an army of angels waiting for the go ahead to come down here. We knew we couldn’t keep her locked away forever, that she would get older and if…and if anything happened to us…” 

In that moment, the timeless, youthful face of the King of Hell is a portrait of all the weariness of the universe. 

A fresh wail from the bedroom fills the silence.

Lucifer winces and dips his head to hide it.

But Alastor sees and he seethes.

“Go on.” He growls.

Something in Lucifer’s face hardens.

“So I made a deal.” He says, and angelic steel might as well be laced in those words for how they strike Alastor. With a wave of his hand, a golden contract appears in mid-air. “Charlie and all the Hellborn would be protected from Heaven's attack. In return, I agreed that Charlie would be my only heir, the end of my line.”

Lucifer is signed in red-inked looping cursive at the bottom of the golden page.

In the old picture shows - the ones shown in the Grand Theatre on Main St., USA - this would be the point where the piano accompaniment would be low and dramatic, honoring the hero’s sacrifice.

Alastor laughs and laughs, manic, crazed.

Lucifer glares at him. “Heaven cannot go after Charlie.” He snaps. “I won’t allow it. So, the angel will go to Heaven. She will be safe. Charlie will be safe. Win-win.”

Alastor sucks in a breath and cuts his laughter short. “Again, Your Majesty, with my deepest sincerity: fuck you.” He delivers this with as much venom as he can muster.

When the King shuts his eyes in frustration, Alastor takes his chance. 

He slashes at the King’s throat with his staff. If he had not been so fucking dense as to rip out his own nails, he would have clawed out the Devil’s eyes, hellfire be damned. The staff connects and rebounds as if Lucifer were made of stone.

Hellfire is the dish of the day, it would seem. Lucifer’s iron grip on Alastor’s shoulders scorches him. His shirt melts into his skin and he screams . The fire lasts in his nerves and his muscles spasm down his arms. He drops his staff. He fights to get to his feet, to get to her . 

Protect.

Protect her.

Danger. Predator. Threat.

Alastor falls against Lucifer, and forces his shaking arms to grip the King around the shoulders. The Devil throws him back down with little more than a shove. The tips of the Devil’s horns poke through his smooth white forehead. Golden blood gathers at his temple. His eyes glow red. 

He puts a palm to the bedroom door to push it open.

“Would you sacrifice one daughter to protect the other? Or do you truly think Heaven would show mercy on the spawn of a sinner and the Devil himself?” Alastor hisses from the floor. “It seems you have further yet to fall, Lucifer.”

The line of Lucifer’s shoulders sags and he drops his hand to his side.

“I…” 

Another chance.

Alastor’s brain, frantic and terrified, flips through Lucifer’s speech, scanning the contract, his emotions, his hesitation.

The Radio Demon is a dealmaker. Contracts are his bread and butter. His power is not based on those souls he extinguishes, but those he keeps. He has bought out contracts. Nearly every deal has a loophole.

Almost every deal…

“You idiot.” Alastor snarls. “You utter fucking fool. Deny her. That is all you must do. Deny her. Keep her from your line. Do what every other king in history has done with royal by-blows and deny her.”

Lucifer turns to Alastor then. His eyes are too full of pity for Alastor’s prideful nature to stomach. Hot resentment bubbles up within him. Its strength is a thick cast over the heat of his wounds. 

“Name your price.” Lucifer finally says. His voice is so soft that Alastor nearly misses it.

“What?”

“Your price.”

“What price? I have no price.”

“Your price. Nothing is ever free with you sinners. Especially you. Name your price: money, territory, power. What do you want? I’ll grant it if it is within my power. NOT the throne. I can’t give that away. I’ve tried. Come on, Radio Demon. Let’s strike a deal.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No deal.”

Lucifer’s manic grin must match Alastor's own. “You can’t, haha, you can’t keep her. It doesn’t - ahhh, it doesn’t work like that. Heaven wins. Heaven always wins.” He laughs, a hollow sound that ends in a sob.

“I quite recall a different ending just last year. Your daughter, your eldest daughter, proved them wrong. Maybe all it took was a bit of defiance. A bit of spine.” 

“You have no-”

“There is no price. No deal. No capitulation. I will not back down.” Alastor leaves the ‘unlike you’ unsaid. His righteous anger is cut short by another insistent wail from the bedroom. His eyes flick past Lucifer and he knows the King sees. Unacceptable. So Alastor delivers the killing blow. "I am sure you could take a helpless infant by force, Your Majesty...but what would dear Charlie think of you then?"

It is a low blow and Alastor delivers it with glee.

Lucifer sighs. Defeated at last. “So, you do have a heart, huh? Well, I’m sorry for you. They’ll break it, you know. Heaven. They’re good at that.” He almost does sound sympathetic.

Alastor despises missing out on having the last word, but Lucifer does not give him the chance. In a swirl of red and gold, the King of Hell vanishes, leaving destruction in his wake.

The child is in Alastor’s arms before he draws his next breath. He shushes her whimpers and wipes away her tears, whispering promises he will die before he breaks, vowing death on those he does not have the power to kill. He puts her to his chest - bruised and tender - and, as she feeds, he at last feels his body relax with a deep shudder.

No doubt Alastor is opening himself to attack with such an obvious chink in his armor. It does not matter. It never mattered, maybe. She needs him. There is not another soul on Earth or in Hell who has ever needed Alastor so. 

“You are mine, ” he whispers fiercely, “and I will devour the world to keep you from harm.”

Notes:

Aww, look at Alastor embracing motherhood with his own brand of murder-y obsession! Just in time for his holiday!

I'll be posting another update later this week. Entirely dependent on, ya know, life. Rough projection for Friday.

Unless inspiration, free time, and a well-charged laptop strike at the same time.

See ya real soon!

Chapter 10

Notes:

Technically, It is still Friday for 27 minutes in my side of the world. This chapter turned out much longer than I anticipated. But I'm following an outline and we had a lot of ground to cover before the next few chapters. This one is very dialogue heavy (again, a surprise to me), so still a quick read.

T/W:
Racism
Domestic Abuse
Child Abuse
Murder

“Give me a smile, mon coeur.”

She toyed with his hair as he lay with his head in her lap. His red locks curled around her slim fingers like the heavy stones that usually adorn them. Alastor was a bit too warm in his new coat, better suited for evening wear than afternoon lounging. Her silk dress was a cool comfort against his cheek.  A crimson sunset painted the room with a hazy rouge glow.

She tugged on a curl.

“Alastor, ma puce, Maman asked for a smile.”

So he gave her one, a lazy one, the kind of happy smile that comes from knowing oneself is adored.

"There's my sunshine boy," she murmured, kissing his freckled nose. Sun-kissed, she called the ruddy color of his skin on those rare days he played too long outside. Here, in her bed, listening to her off-key humming, Alastor felt his soul was sun-kissed. 

Warm and loved and content.

Then, a gunshot of a voice shattered their peace. 

"Christ have mercy!" 

His mother's husband stood at the door. Both Alastor and his mother flinched. He hugged her waist tighter, but she pulled out of his embrace.

“Get that boy outta my bed! He follow you ‘round like a goddamn shadow - no, he follow you round like youse a bitch in heat. That it? You a bitch in heat?” 

"Go on, ma puce. Be a good boy." His mother guided Alastor out, her body a shield as they passed her husband. The door slammed shut before Alastor could plead for her to come too.

"He ain't right!" Her husband bellowed on the other side.

“You stink of whiskey. Lay down, Harry, ‘fore you fall and straighten that crooked nose.” His mother’s voice. Level. Measured.

"Somethin's not right..."

"Everything is right as rain. Now hush... hush. Don't fret over my Alastor, and he is mine, hear me? Mine."

“Ha! I sure as shit didn’ give ‘im to ya, did I? Filthy slut.” 

"You never were man enough to  —"

A sharp slap made Alastor jump. He wanted to burst in, to tear the man apart, to return any pain the man dared give Alastor’s mother. But, at age twelve - and small for his age at that - Alastor's strength lay more in his smarts than his fists, or at least his mother had once told him so.

So he figured the odds and they weren’t good.

"Feel better now? Knocking me about never did solve your problems, but go on. Hit me. Let my daddy see me with another shiner. Nah, you don’t beat no one ‘less they in skirts. Go to your juke, Harry.”

“I’ll tell ‘em all. Don’ think I won’t. I’ll bring the boy wit me and they can all see-” His hiss was cut off by Alastor’s mother’s fierce growl, a sound so low Alastor pressed his ear to the door to hear her.

"— enough to wear cuckold's horns, coward."

A long silence hung in the air. Then, a sickening sound: a throat clicking through a gurgle. It lasted an entirety before Alastor heard a heavy thump. His mother gasped out a thin plea for mercy.

The demon laughed.

Alastor burst into the room, charging straight at the demon hurting his mother. He was brushed aside like an bug, and his face slammed *smack* against the bedpost. Blood bloomed across his mother’s rug in expanding concentric circles, the bluebells and silver bells pattern now covered in dark crimson. 

Later, when cleaned up, the damage was less severe than he thought: just a split lip and a gash from the bridge of his nose straight through his left eyebrow. But head wounds bleed terribly, and Alastor’s face was covered in warm, thick blood as he lay on the floor. His glasses had broken in two and the world was blurred.

Alastor thought he was a goner when the demon came back into view.

“Shoulda drowned you when your coloring came in, ya filthy, yellow, half-bred mutt! Come on, boy, try it again! Them gators' hungry and you is nothing but goddamn gator bait!”

Dizzy, Alastor could only turn his head from the demon’s foul breath.

“You crying? Shit, not so tough now, huh? Get up. Try again, mutt. I said get up!”

A brutal kick to his ribs stole the breath from his lungs. He choked on his own blood, gasping. Another kick got him in the kidneys and he keened in pain. Blood sprayed out of his mouth. More to ruin his mother’s favorite rug.

Alastor whimpered.

“Not so tough n-” 

Glass exploded around Alastor as a teapot shattered against the demon's head. His mother rained teacups down on her husband, each one finding its mark until the tea tray was empty. Then, she seized her silver hairbrush, continuing her furious assault up close and personal.

The memory blurs there. He vaguely registered his mother's gentle voice as she cleaned his wounds. He wouldn’t know until the next day that the gash had required stitches. He swallowed sweet soothing syrup, and drifted in and out of sleep for hours.

"Mon rayon de soleil."

He tried to ignore the voice, sleep heavy on his lids.

"Alastor, mon rayon de soleil, mon coeur, wake for me."

"Maman?"

"Oui, mon coeur. Give me a smile, my sunshine boy."

"I'm tired, Maman."

"Un sourire. Just one more. Just for me. Un sourire, mon coeur."

Through the blur of darkness and poor vision, he saw fragments of his mother – auburn curls, a flash of a smile. He smiled too, the movement reopening his split lip and tugging at his stitches. Her fingers raked through his hair as she pressed a series of kisses against his aching forhead.

Alastor awoke later to discover his mother had been taken away. 

It would be her second term of confinement in an insane asylum.

--- 

They cannot stay here.

Alastor’s nerves spike at every shadow and crack of smoldering wood. He curses himself for shivering. It is not cold. That leaves fear. Unacceptable. The Radio Demon can hold his own. He was caught unawares, earlier.

Lucifer’s magic is soaked into the fabric of the little cottage and permeates the air. It stinks of hellfire smoke and tainted divinity. Hours later, Alastor can still feel it pressing against him. Echoes of Lucifer’s fiery grip prickle at his shoulders. His static fizzes and pops at that reminder of his desperation and helplessness.

He uses an unhealthy amount of power to speed heal those marks.

It takes too long to stitch the tears within Shadow. Alastor resorts to creating an umbrage against the bedroom wall and selecting choice cuts to repair his familiar.  It is a complicated bit of soul magic, and an exhausting and time consuming process. The afternoon sun is high when he finishes.

The child remained awake and content during this. Her bared fingers and toes provided sufficient entertainment. Gurgles and experimental squeaks juxtapose the black magic being performed mere feet from the nest. Shadow watched her like a hawk during its surgery, the red glow of its eyes dim in its weak state. 

They cannot stay here.

The vast expanse of the forest showcased by the wall of glass lulled his hindbrain with a deceptive sense of security. But he is not a deer, and she is not his fawn, and Alastor knows they are not safe in his own home. He cannot hide in the shadows from danger. The predator has already sniffed them out and could return at any moment.

But the deep reservoir of his powers is useless if he does not have the strength to tap into it. His eyelids droop as the child enjoys an afternoon feed. His stomach growls beneath her. The kitchen is destroyed.  He summons water and even that holds a hint of divinity that burns his throat. He cannot trust the food.

Shadow changes the child’s napkin. She grabs at its hands as it works, managing to hold onto a bit of substance before her palm falls through. Shadow’s jagged smile is borderline indulgent as it tickles one of her feet. Her toes curl. 

Alastor growls in reprimand. Hardly cowed, Shadow boops the child on the nose and flies to the chest of drawers. It holds up a midnight blue gown for Alastor’s approval. 

SNAP.

The gown reappears on the child, with a matching bonnet tied on her head.

SNAP.

Long midnight blue stockings and gloves paint themselves up her limbs.

There. She now blends in with the shadows. It is a poor balm to Alastor’s fried nerves, but it has to do for now. He floats a low lullaby through the air, a nameless instrumental far older than himself, one of the treasures he discovered hidden away in shadow as his power developed in Hell. 

The child does not make a fuss that he has kept her in the nest. Alastor does not believe in miracles, so he credits her with having especially good manners. She sleeps, eats, and seems content to curl against his chest like a kitten.

Another morning dawns.

Afternoon bites at her heels.

Rosie does not visit.

After three weeks of near isolation, Alastor meticulously dresses in his usual formal wear. He then outfits the child in a complementary red gown, ensuring modesty with a puffy white diaper cover despite the fabric falling well past her toes.

With a swift appraisal, he grabs a length of black lace and expertly fashions it - mid-air - into a flamboyant bow, attaching it to the gown's collar. To finish the ensemble, he adds a red bonnet - naturally lining in black lace.

It would never do to appear sloppy when visiting friends!

They disappear into shadows he summons.

And reappear in the private apartment above Rosie’s Emporium. 

It would be poor manners for any other demon in Hell to appear unannounced but Alastor considers himself something of an exception. The hours between afternoon tea and dinner are prime for shopping in Cannibal Town. The clacking skeletons and grumbles of digesting stomachs - in every way you can imagine - are proof that business is booming. 

He lets out the breath he does not realize he is holding when Rosie’s sharp laugh cuts above the din. Of course there was never a possibility Rosie would be harmed. She is no damsel in distress. He settles onto the overstuffed, comfortable couch - a piece that would never make it into the showroom - with the infant on his chest. Rosie’s power - pink and heavy in flowery decay - perfumes her private rooms. 

He shuts his eyes.

Safe

He must doze because he is on his stomach when consciousness shocks his system. He pushes himself back to his knees in an instant tearing at the cushions, throwing one clear across the room in his panic. 

She is not here. 

He lets out a low moan.

shhhhhh *tsss* shhhhh *tsss* shhhhhh *tsss* shhhhh *tsss* shhhhhh *tss* shhhhh *tsss*

Static pops and hisses as his mind goes haywire. It rips the air apart, burning sound waves so they sizzle like flashes in a hot pan.  

shhhhhh *tsss* shhhhh *tsss* shhhhhh *tsss* shhhhh *tsss* shhhhhh *tss* shhhhh *tsss*

The lights flicker as the panic mounts.

shhhhhh *tsss* shhhhh *tsss* shhhhhh *tsss* shhhhh *tsss* shhhhhh *tss* shhhhh *tsss*

A blanket traps his feet when he tries to stand and he tumbles to the floor. He looks under the coach, under the coffee table, under the cabinet. His vision narrows to pin pricks as his pupils constrict to radio dials. 

“Alastor! Alastor! She’s here, Alastor - breathe with me, there you go, easy goes it - here she is. Right back to momma, here we go. Breathe. That’s the ticket. Nice and slow.”

He burrows his nose against her head and inhales her sweet, familiar scent. Blood pounds in his ears. He makes a concerted effort to pry them back up. They remain stuck against his head. The trembling has returned. 

“Oh, honey.” Rosie rubs a bony hand against his back. “We weren’t gone but a minute to the kitchen. You must have sensed it, you clever thing. She’s safe. But it ain’t safe to nap with her on your belly, Mister.” 

She pinches one of his ears.

He appreciates the distraction. Even if his hackles rise at her presumption. But it’s Rosie and she is as much an exception to his standards as he is to hers. The pressure is a feeling outside of his panic.

“I didn’t mean to.” He admits, voice muffled against the fabric of the child’s dress as he nuzzles into her.

“Typical man.” Rosie says with more affection than bite.

“You did not visit. Yesterday. Or today.” Alastor says when he has a better grip on his nerves. 

Rosie’s eyes and mouth pop wide in surprise.

“Honey, you were gone! The cottage, the path, even the packard’s tracks. I couldn’t find a single trace. I thought…I thought you left.” She drops her gaze to her lap, fiddling with the frills on her gloves.

“Without saying goodbye? Absurd, my friend!” Alastor huffs in a poor mimicry of a laugh.

“Don’t you dare.” Rosie’s kind features tighten in anger and she thrusts a bony finger near his face. “Don’t you pretend it ain’t your way. Seven years and not a peep. Absurd is mourning seven years for someone who ain’t dead. Seven years.”

“Yes, yes. Fair point.” 

Well, isn’t that a fried egg on his blushing face! Alastor's absence had nothing to do with his Hellish acquaintances, so there had been no need for any advance notice. He had been amused upon his reappearance by a variety of entertaining responses, ranging from tepid interest in his disappearance to exaggerated tales of his supposed demise. Vox’s public tantrum had been a delight!

Only Rosie had been happy to see him.

“My apologies, Rosie.”

Rosie sniffed, dabbing at her face with an embroidered handkerchief. “Well, it was a pretty picture to find you in my parlor. About made me swallow the heart in my throat, but no harm done. Have a sandwich now. You are paler than my first husband at the altar! I told that man that bleaching before the ceremony was asking for trouble, but you remember him! Pfft! There was not a fad that could not turn that man’s head clean off his vertebrae...”

He lets her chatter on as he devours every crumb on the heaped plate and accepts her wordless offer for a second helping. He washes it down with two cups of tea, nearly white with cream and sugar. The sweetness - not his preference, normally - hits the spot, as it were.

His shirt is quite snug by the time he finally pushes away a tin of bonemeal wafers. It is a relief when the child wails for her own supper. Alastor unclasps a few more buttons than necessary for her feeding. He feels the edges of his smile soften when she latches on. Her tiny fingers paw at his collar bone, landing just above his heart. He covers her hand with his much larger one.

“Oh, you and your jazz!” Rosie calls from the kitchen.

Alastor blinks.

Oh.

He has been filling the room with music. It happens, when he lets his mind wander. He flips on a show tunes medley - Rosie’s preferred genre - and hums along as “Professor” Hill sings his list of instruments.

Rosie waits until he has restored himself to decency before re-emerging with a fresh tea tray. 

“Spill.” She orders. Without asking - apparently Alastor has yet to be forgiven - she scoops the half-dozing infant into her arms and situates into a rocking chair. 

Alastor sighs.

“Lucifer.” 

Rosie gives an “ahhhh” of understanding and nods her head for him to continue.

“He found us. He attacked me. He tried to take her. I…” Alastor remembers the fear and cannot suppress the shudder that wracks his body. “Heaven knows. Rosie, Heaven knows and they want her.”

“Heaven can sit on a pin!” Rosie snarls, baring two sharp rows of canines.

“He tried to take her.” Alastor repeats. The words are sour on his tongue. Rage bubbles up in his gut, threatening to purge the evidence of his gluttony. He tried to take her. Spineless coward. Deadbeat. Worse than Alastor’s own poor excuse for a father. Lucifer was not only stupid and selfish, but dangerous too. 

Alastor did not pretend he was on level with the Devil power-wise.

He should not have been surprised that his morals were superior. Unlike Lucifer, who neglected his daughter Charlie, the Princess of Hell and his heir, Alastor embraced his parental responsibilities. And a responsible parent protects their child. Therefore, it was predictable that Lucifer, a demonstrably poor father, would be quick to ditch a bastard.

“She is mine.” He whispers.

“Alastor, sweetie, I want to help, really I do. But Ol’ Rosie needs her facts straight if you need another bloodthirsty army quicksmart. Perhaps…if you told me...”

“I am an open book, my dear.” He assures her. 

Rosie snorts, “Redacted and with half the pages ripped out, I bet. Cards on the table. Sinners can’t reproduce. Even if we could - " She starts.

“I am a man.” Alastor finishes.

“You see my point.”

“I don’t know, Rosie. I don’t. I simply spent a mildly entertaining evening with Lucifer.”

“And you…?”

“Played doe.”

“Well, color me pink!”

“Details start and end there, my dear.”

“Of course, no need to kiss and tell! But is he -”

Alastor nips that bud before it flowers. 

“She is an angel. She is an angel and Heaven wants her.”

Rosie’s brow creases, “Charlie is not an angel.”

“No.” Alastor has seen the princess’s demonic nature. She is no angel.

"The queen is a sinner. You are a sinner. Powerful sinners, but...Lucifer."

Yes, Lucifer.

His name lingers on in the silence. There is not any more Alastor can add to the conversation. He allowed Lucifer fuck him in the ass. Nine months later he gave birth to an angel. 

Despite his inexperience, Alastor did not consider the sexual encounter to be atypical to any other drunken romp.

Sweaty. 

Awkward. 

Disappointing. 

He could not see the appeal of a repeat performance.

Not that one had been on offer.

“She’ll be very powerful.” Rosie muses after a spell, stroking the child’s cheek. She shoots Alastor a cheeky grin and winks. “Daughter of the fearsome Radio Demon and all.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear."

---

Alastor does not need convincing to spend the night. 

Reluctantly, he conjures up the child’s bassinet at Rosie’s pointed glare. He prefers the child to sleep close, safe in the curl of his body. This sentiment is shared, if the child’s piercing, persistent cries are anything to go by. She wails against her perceived abandonment, her little cheeks flushing red and gold with her outrage. 

It is a long night. 

Really, the parlor does not have the necessary square footage to fit a man-sized nest of blankets and cushions. It is obviously unsafe to sleep on a sofa while holding an infant, angelic or otherwise. The memory of blue-tinged lips is enough to dissuade Alastor from even risking it. 

Accustomed to pacing away the midnight hours, he is unsurprised when his efforts to transfer the snoozing child to the bassinet result in instant wails of betrayal. Once recollected, the child resumes her victory snooze.

Alastor is more proud than frustrated at her little manipulations. 

But only just.

Rosie plays a supporting role in that night’s struggle, offering tea and taking on a short shift in the rocking chair while Alastor catches a few hour’s rest in the early morning hours. The night felt far removed from the one spent resisting unwanted assistance at the hotel. 

Breakfast is made complete by fresh baked offal quiche and the latest Cannibal Town gossip. Alastor agrees that bitch Susan should not be re-elected to the town council, but the idiot sinners keep voting her in. Rosie theorizes it has more to do with their fear of Susan’s bitchy rage than a genuine faith in her ability to fight for the wishes of the electorate. 

“It really makes a gal reconsider the democratic process.” Rosie confesses.

“Sinners really do not know what they want. Why else would they sell us their souls? To take away that autonomy, my dear.” Alastor opines in return.

The shop bell jangles downstairs.

“Hmm, I wonder who that could be?” Rosie wonders aloud. Loudly.  

Alastor detects a lack of genuine curiosity in her vocal delivery. 

It gives him just enough time to prepare himself for the ambush. 

“Alastor!” Charlie squeals. “Vaggie! Vaggie! It’s Alastor!” 

The sullen ex-angel appears on the stairs behind her. Both appear exhausted, hair barely tamed into their respective styles, clothes rumpled. Vaggie yawns, stretching out both arms and - truly, no manners with that girl! - wings, knocking several frames off the wall.

“Yay."

Rosie ushers the ladies into the parlor. 

“I clean forgot these gals were due for a fitting! Well, the more the merrier, I say! Ha!” She guides Charlie to sit into her own plush armchair. Straight across from where Alastor perches on the sofa.

The princess beams like a child at Christmas.

Alastor resists the urge to squirm. And the ever growing desire to tear Rosie’s soul out of both sides of her mouth.

“Now, you two chitchat while Miss Vaggie tries on her new little number. Remember - it is a surprise, princess! You stay put! Alastor, you keep an eye on that girl - can’t have her spoiling a surprise!”

Charlie grabs Rosie’s arm and shout-whispers, “thank you!”

Subtlety, thy name is certainly not Charlie.

“Hi, Al! Oh, I’ve missed you!” Charlie squeaks.

“Hello, Charlotte.” He returns with far less enthusiasm. 

An awkward moment stretches between them. 

“How have you been, my dear?” Alastor finally asks.

“Oh! Me? Of course, me . I’m good - great, even. Vaggie is great too. Yeah, and Angel is great and Niffty is great and Husk…well, Husk is…been Husk. And the hotel is great . The guests are great. Yeah, things are, really, really…”

“Great?” Alastor offers.

Charlie’s smile touches on this side of manic.

“Is that so, my dear?” 

Charlie nods, frantically. Then her smile droops and her head swivels into more vigorous shaking.

“No! No, it has all gone all wrong! The guests keep sending in complaints and I fix it and then it just breaks again , so then they file more complaints and I don’t have time to work out the therapy schedules, or plan out activities, and we couldn’t find the order forms and then we did and they got mixed up and they all went to the wrong places and then Vaggie made brownies but someone slipped marijuana in some and laxatives in others and Angel said it was, you know, shits or giggles but some residents took two and - “

“I quite get the picture.” Alastor cuts in, attempting to scour his brain of mental images before they form.

“I’ve ruined two hotels.” Charlie finishes and drops her face into her palms. “Now I’m doing exactly what I promised Rosie I wouldn’t do. You don’t need my problems.” She sniffs and offers him a watery smile. “How is the baby?”

Alastor sighs, “Forgive me for unsolicited advice, princess, but couldn’t your father take on some of the duties at the hotel? I had thought he offered his assistance after failing to offer basic protection in assuring the first edition was not decimated by an angelic attack.” He suggests. 

Charlie’s face crumples again and she wails.

“Oh, Al! He won’t talk to me. It’s just like when my mom left. One day he was texting me pictures of ducks, and the next - crickets. I mean, he isn’t sending pictures of crickets.”

“I understand your meaning, dear.”

“He must have seen it was all a failure! I’m a failure. Sir Pentious earned his redemption through the ultimate sacrifice. Not my silly exercises.” She sobs miserably. 

“Charlie.”

“I’m so stupid!” 

“Charlie!”

She hiccups, eyes wide. Alastor cannot help but notice that she has inherited a slightly exaggerated version of Lucifer’s eyes. He thinks of the sleeping infant nestled in her bassinet (apparently content to nap in it during daylight hours).

“Charlie.” He gentles his voice. “Have I ever told you the story of my inheritance?”

“No?” She sniffles.

He offers her a handkerchief and wrinkles his nose in distaste as she loudly blows her nose.

“I was seventeen.” He starts and waits for her to give him her full attention once more. If he is going to tell this tale, he intends to do so only once. “To say my inheritance was unexpected is an understatement. Overnight, I became the wealthiest man in my county, owner of an expansive plantation, employer to hundreds of men and women, a millionaire through my late grandfather’s overseas investments, and now a master of the house. I was now the head of my family and expected to act like it.”

“That sounds like a lot.” Charlie says.

Alastor huffs out a ragged breath. A century later and his chest still remembers that moment of dread when he knew he would mess it all up. “It was. So I ran away on my eighteenth birthday. I ran to New Orleans with a pocket full of money and a dream. I was swindled out of the money before nightfall. The dream disappeared by morning. I had never left home before, not even for school. I didn’t have friends at home. The other children could not play with the master’s son. I did not know how to talk to people. I was alone, penniless, and, yes, afraid.”

“What did you do?” Charlie asks, entranced.

“I smiled at the right gal!” Alastor says with a wide grin. “Mimzy caught sight of my sorry hide near Bourbon St. and took me under her wing. She got me bootlegging in exchange for room and board at her lodgings. It was a golden time, for the time it lasted.”

“What happened?”

“Fire became far too friendly during a shootout at an underground pharmacy. Got arrested, made the papers. The charge couldn’t stick - they never did, in those days, so long as the other runners kept their traps shut - but my mother saw. She came right to New Orleans and drug me home by my ear!” 

“She must have been mad.” Charlie says.

“Not at all! We never discussed it much, but I do believe her joy at my return overshadowed any anger she might have felt. I never could get her mad enough to stop loving me. Charlotte, my dear, might I inquire if the hotel is your first foray away from home?”

“No. It is my second.” She says, proudly, then seems to shrink back into herself. “The first was college. I stayed in the dorms for one year. I moved back in with my dad after graduation - but, you know, the palace is so big it was like having my own place.”

Alastor is convinced he has earned an award due to his exceptional patience thus far.

“But you did not worry about utilities or the rent or property maintenance. You never shopped for your own groceries or toiletries.”

“No.” She sighs. “I don’t think my parents prepared me at all to live on my own. They probably did not expect me too.”

Alastor nods, “They likely didn’t, my dear. Like myself, you grew up in a self-sustaining environment of luxury. I never wondered how my bread came to be at my table - I simply buttered it.” He shrugs.

“My parents took care of it all when I lived at home. Then I let you take over when I moved out.” Charlie says slowly. “But…you…”

“Yes, my dear?"

“Al…”

Alastor waves a hand in the universal gesture of ‘annnnd?’ 

“You may as well ask, my dear. You really already have, but it is best to speak face-to-face on matters of business. It avoids misunderstandings."

Charlie tips her head sideways, brow creased in confusion. “I may ask…what, exactly?” She asks.

“A perfect fit!” Rosie announces, entering the room with a bit of a flourish, pulling Vaggie along like the wet blanket she is. 

“We should go, Charlie.” Vaggie suggests quietly. Urgently.

“In a minute.” Charlie turns back to Alastor. “Ask what, Alastor? What have I asked?"

“Charlie, we have so much to do.” Vaggie’s voice sounds strangled in her throat. 

"Hahaha!" Alastor laughs, a high and pitchy sound, genuinely amused. "Hiding secrets again, little angel?" 

Charlie stills. "Vaggie?" She shifts her luminous eyes to her girlfriend. "Did you...ask Alastor for something? Please, please don't lie to me. Please."

"Just...for help. I put a note in the basket." Vaggie mutters. Her own eye is fixed on her shoes. She flinches as Charlie stands. Her demonic features flash across her face, hair momentarily wild in the air, eyes inverted.

"We agreed! We agreed! What is the point of agreeing to anything if you just do whatever anyway!" Charlie whips back toward Alastor, and she is back to normal - frantic, anxious, and crestfallen. "I wouldn't ask that of you. Not after...not after everything we did. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I swear, Alastor. I asked Rosie if I could see you to say how sorry I am - which I haven't done yet! Argh! Damn it, Vaggie! We really fucked up! We. Just. Keep. Fucking. Up." She punctuates the last of her ramble by slapping her forehead.

Ordinarily delighted by others' suffering, Alastor finds no enjoyment in the princess's breakdown.

"Charlotte, there is no need for this display." He insists. He shares a look with Rosie and is dismayed to see she is also stunned by these dramatics.

"I just keep fucking up!" She shrieks.

One of the tea cups shatters in its saucer. The child, who has been snoozing away in her bassinet next to Alastor, decides Charlie's anguish should be a duet. Inspired, Charlie's sobs staccato until she bursts into a longer wail. The child does a remarkable job providing harmony to their impromptu performance.

Alastor lifts the infant from her bassinet, shushing her in a low voice. Rosie draws Charlie into a motherly embrace, shushing her with equal affection. Vaggie stands alone, miserably awkward. Her eyes meet Alastor's as he rubs a practiced hand against the infant's back. Squaring her shoulders, Vaggie faces him head on.

"I was wrong." Vaggie says, gritting her teeth. "I shouldn't have written you that note. I was trying to help Charlie. We all fucked up. With the baby, with how we treated you, all of it. None of us knew what we were doing. Not even you. But we were all real shitty to you when you were already having a real shitty time. I'm sorry. But I don't want your forgiveness. I don't deserve it. None of us do. But Charlie? You know she'll work for it. She'll work for it until she deserves it and then she'll keep going. She'll be better for it. That's why she deserves it. But not me. I don't deserve it."

"No." Alastor agrees with a saccharine grin. "But you'll get it, regardless. We are in Hell, my dear. None of us get what we deserve. Now, Charlotte, are you going to ask?"

Overcome with emotion, Charlie's blubber begins anew, uttering sounds that resemble no known language. 

"Yes, yes, since you state your case so eloquently, I will consider your proposal." 

"Bastardo." Vaggie mutters. But the tension drops out of her shoulders and she collapses with relief into Charlie's unoccupied chair.

---

Alastor committed his first murder at age seventeen.

Technically it was his second murder, but, really, Alastor considered the first more of a nasty mistake. A corpse does not a murderer make.

In the days following his first deliberate mortal sin, fully aware and intent on its success, he found a profound disappointment in the normalcy of his days. He had expected any number of consequences that never came to pass. A big-bellied sheriff never came to haul him to jail. No spectre of his victim trailed him through the dark halls of his house. There was no rope hung to fit his slim throat.

The cycle of sunrise and sunset continued, and time passed at its usual pace.

Meals were served and eaten, the food and company unremarkable.

Sleep continued to offer its oblivion. 

There were no concealed truths revealed when he read his books.

Alastor felt no nearer to damnation than he had prior to slitting the bastard’s throat and his world remained stubbornly mundane.

So it was not difficult to accept the sympathies of well-wishers with grace when they installed a casket in the parlor. He excused himself within the first hour of visitation, escaping the local busybodies and their homely daughters. The bayou held better company than his well furnished parlor ever had.

An alligator basked in the sun just yards from Alastor’s favorite tree. 

“Mon dieu, Alastor! Get down here!” His mother hissed from the base.

Staying put would constitute a second broken commandment this week for Alastor, an outcome he contemplated given the unimpressive results of violating the other. However, Alastor didn't require biblical instruction to honor his mother, so he lowered himself to the damp ground. Murky water soaked quickly into his dress shoes and silk stockings.

“I needed air, Maman.” 

“Alastor.”

“I haven’t been gone but an hour, Maman!”

“Alastor! Our house is full of guests and you are the host. My dear, you must be seen. They want to see you, mon coeur .”

“The prize hog at auction.” 

“The master of the house.”

“A lamb led to slaughter.”

“A greeting. A word. A smile. That is all I ask of you. Perhaps you might offer a libation to your father’s memory.”

“My father is not dead.”

“Hush! A smile only, mon coeur, if that pleases you.”

“A smile and an empty coffin. Both out of place at a wake, Maman. But, of course, like all the pretty doves in the parlor, you have your reasons.”

He started walking at that point, in the general direction of the house. He can see the outline of it even this far in the bayou, backlit by the bright southern sun.

“I am not matchmaking over my husband’s corpse.” 

“Indeed not. The little missus’ heels would sink right in this mud.” 

“Hush. Three days, mon ceour, and we put him in the ground.”

“The empty box, you mean.”

“Alastor.”

“What are you telling them, I wonder? It is in such poor taste to hide the star of the performance.”

He did not need to turn to see his mother’s smirk. He could hear the self-satisfaction in her voice.

“Bad blood.”

“Well played, Maman! If only you could be so lenient with we mere supporting actors in your grand schemes.”

His mother’s frustration could have set fire to the thick swampy air. 

“Mr. Holloway. You have your banker, estate manager, and several potential contracts sitting in your parlor. It is time to take up your birthright and step into the sun.”

Alastor could not hide his own flush of frustration in his voice. “After hiding me in the shadows all my life, you now throw me to the flames. Already, there is talk. I am the evidence of your crimes. I will be seen for the fraud I am.”

“You are a handsome, wealthy and intelligent man, Alastor Holloway.”

“That is not my name!” Alastor screamed and the sound echoed around them. He lowered his voice. “He never gave it to me. I have no claim on it. I know that, Maman. I will not pretend to it.”

His mother, nearly fifty, was a petite beauty. Alastor stood more than a foot above her. The black of her mourning garments seemed to shrink her even further. But, in that moment, she dwarfed him with the power of her presence. Her fingers gripped into his forearm and he felt them draw blood.

“It is. We took it.” Her dark eyes flash in the afternoon shadows. Light fights for purchase in a swamp and she steals it. “My father sold me for it. I lay under my husband’s sweating body for twenty years for it. I walked to the gates of Hell to find you. We ripped that name from his skull and bathed you anew in blood for it. Maybe we are damned for it. But we earned that name, and it is yours.”

Honor thy Mother.

“Yes, Maman.” Alastor bowed his head. 

“You shall go into that parlor and raise a glass to that man. A toast of farewell and damnation.”

Thou shalt not kill.

“Yes, Maman.” 

“You shall meet with your staff, greet your cousins, charm your guests, and tonight you will sit at your table as head of the Holloway family.”

Thou shalt not steal.

“Yes, Maman.”

Alastor knew himself to be damned. Perhaps he always had been, bastard son of a whore and a heathen. He did not believe Dante’s version of Hell is based in any reality, layered and graded to meet each sinner’s crimes. Damnation is black and white, and shadows have dominated Alastor’s entire existence thus far. So, he might have chosen to violate every Commandment on the slab on his path to Hell.

But two out of three was not bad for a demon in waiting.

"Mon dieu, you do try your maman's nerves. Now, let me see that smile, my sunshine boy."

Notes:

See you Sunday night/Monday morning (depending on your time zone)

UPDATE (5/18, 7:43pm, CT): A sick household and surprise emergency work obligations have delayed Chapter 11 to Monday afternoon/night. Since this fic feeds my soul and not my kids, I had to put the chapter on the backburner. I could rush it by midnight, but it is an information heavy one and if I mess it up here it'll be a rough second half for all of us.

Trust me, you don't want it as is.

On the bright-side, it has some Explicit Content to look forward to! :)

So, I'll actually see you tomorrow night

Chapter 11

Notes:

Another Lucifer POV!

A lot of this is my own headcannon of Lucifer, and inspired by random interviews Viv has given.

T/W:
Mentions of past non-consent
Vaginal Sex
Mentions of infant death (but not what you think)
Infertility
Random human atrocities in history

Had Lucifer been required to attend traditional schooling, he wouldn’t have been a straight A student. 

Or an AB student.

You know what they say: C’s get degrees? Yeah, Lucifer would not have bothered applying to college.

Not that he isn’t intelligent. He is, like, super intelligent. The most. Probably. It’s just… ugh, studying. The time it takes is fucking absurd. Lucky for Lucifer, his harddrive came downloaded with every language known and unknown to humankind, skills he is still discovering (and isn’t that fun!), and a fuckton of raw, pure angelic power. 

It’s a shame the Royal Library of Hell fell under his domain. Plenty of bibliophiles would jizz their shorts just stepping foot through the door. Think of all the clay tablets, scrolls, books, electronic files, and websites in the Library of Alexandria, the Royal Library of Ashurbanipal, the Library of Celsius, the Library of Congress, and Google combined and times that number by like a million.

Probably. 

Lucifer doesn’t keep track. He pays a handsome annual salary to a qualified family of imps to do that.

Anyway, it has to be something really important to get the King of Hell, Ruler of Demons and the Endless Dark, to step foot in a library of all places.

Charlie - who had been required by her loving and not-at-all-divided-on-the-issue of-schooling- thank-you-very-much parents - spent most of her first century cooped up there with her thousands of sticky notes and hundreds of sparkly notebooks, bringing her dorky friends over so they could ooh and aah over how cool it is to have the Big Boss of Hell (himself) as your dad with all the really cool shit he owns.

That is really the “something really important” right there. Lucifer being a dad. With all those pre-downloaded parts that came in his box, fertility was not included. Parts sold separately. 

Wait.

No no no, he came with those parts - and can he come with those parts!

Ehem.

Okay, that metaphor got away from him a bit.

He summons a number of papyrus scrolls from Ancient Egypt’s pharaonic period, skipping over those in Demotic script, and going straight for the Hieroglyphs.

Thank Father he was created with the ability to speed read!

Nothing.

*Sigh*

He skims the Demotic ones. Just to be sure. Lucifer tries not to classist but those are always just receipts and, yup, no surprises here. Damn. The Ancient Egyptians really knew their stuff when it came to magic spells. And they threw kick ass parties. But the Ancient Egyptians are the obvious answer so, of course, it can’t be right.

See, and Lucifer is embarrassed to admit this, he wasn’t exactly virginal before the Fall. There were a lot of trees in Eden and he’s pretty sure he had fucked Lillith under every single one at least once. 

It was his first act of rebellion against Father’s strict rules, losing his virginity to the First Woman.

Actually, given that every being up until Adam and Lillith were either his family or literal animals, the celibacy rule was fair.

And sex is a WAY better reason to Fall than exposing humanity to the concept of free will. 

It was so powerful that first time - and everytime after, but the first time was really something special - that Lucifer was pretty sure he was close to flying. Or exploding. Literally.

The humankind planning committee had crafted Lillith with a heavy dose sex appeal to get the First Man to “go forth and multiply.” Adam, it turns out, wasn’t picky and mostly masturbated. Loser.

It was Lucifer driven near mad with want.

She was in her garden, a small patch of earth she tamed to fit her own design, an expert in horticulture within days of her creation. Perhaps that should have warned Lucifer that she could not be tamed. He did not want to tame her. His blood was so hot, and his loins were on fire for her, and he could not stop his mind from dreaming of eternal flames when he tried to rest. 

One day, Lucifer stopped fighting.

Lillith was always naked, her hair covering her breasts and her pubic area in a waterfall of thick, silky soft blonde hair. Lucifer moved it and there were her breasts, full on display, proud and pert. His hands were shaking as he traced featherlight touches on her collarbones. The pounding of his heart - a novel experience in itself, since up to that moment he had not been aware of its existence in the slightest - nearly deafened him. 

His finger found a nipple and she gasped.

Frightened as a startled hare, he pulled back, stuttering an apology, prepared to dissolve in an embarrassed swirl of starlight, but she caught his hand and pressed it back to her breast. 

So he played with her. 

It was not sophisticated or teasing. It was slow, and tentative, and terrifying.

Time did not exist in Eden. It could have been minutes or hours that Lucifer pleasured the First Woman, beauty incarnate, the intended mother of humankind, now his to worship. She led his hand down to her sex and moaned as he discovered her, stroking and circling. 

She leaned heavily against him, voluminous, panting, a force of nature, her hips bucking as he pressed a thumb against the nub of her sex and delved within with pointed. They tumbled into her garden, to Lucifer’s dismay, but Lillith was beyond thought. Her wetness soaked through his robes as she continued her wild squirming for friction.

His cock was full and hard. He panted, an echo to her desperation, and her first words she ever spoke to him were: “I will have you bare, Angel. Give me your grace.” 

She pulled the sacred robes over his head. 

It was the first time Lucifer had been nude since taking this form.

He did not realize until that moment that she meant to know him carnally.

Lucifer had heard the humans coupling in Eden before, several times. It sounded wholly unpleasant, with crying and grunting, and the hard sound of skin slapping against skin. Lillith seemed injured the mornings after, limping and soaking herself in one of the springs. Adam was always scratched to high heaven and bruised like he fought in the street fights yet to be invented by his progeny.

This was divine. 

She barely touched him before fully seating herself on his cock. The hot, throbbing tightness of her drew stars across his vision. He could see the cosmos, and was certain he could improve it if given another shot. The world needed more life. More pleasure. More Lillith. 

Lucifer tried an experimental thrust up and yessss, that was right. He had lived an entirety in Paradise and only then did he experience pure pleasure. A tightness built low in his abdomen. It frightened him: the heat and the fullness and the need, the need, the need. 

He thrust on, meeting her move for move, running his small hands along her thick thighs.

Lillith wept above him and ground down with desperation. Her sobs alarmed him but she did not stop. Tears dropped onto his belly.  Heavens, she was lovely and tight and hot and Lucifer let go, fully believing that he would burst into starlight and fire and oh so okay with it.

They did not know if Lucifer was fertile.

They had talked about it, he and Lillith, in the early days. Lillith had been very educated by the female presenting seraphim on the natural consequences of sex. If it happened, they reasoned, it could be their race, half-human/half-angel, a race of fragile flesh and angelic grace, love and power. Lucifer’s entire purpose was creation and, for a blissful bit of ignorance, he thought this might have been in Father’s grand plan all along.

But Lillith didn’t get pregnant. 

Eve did, quickly after her creation, several times, and she had been equipped with the same biology as her predecessor.

They concluded that Lucifer was infertile.

Sinners, they found, after ten millennia of mounting evidence, both first-hand and observational, could not reproduce.

Lucifer waves a stack of Roman treatises to a table by one of the bay windows. A faux tableau of a seaside shines bright, artificially natural sunlight into the space. No need to stand on ceremony, Lucifer sets his hat down on the cushioned seat and grabs the top scroll, eyes flicking across the page like the carriage of a typewriter, scanning for answers he does not find.

There had been no tears shed for children never conceived in Eden. Nor did Lillith express any interest in motherhood for the next 6,000 years or so. Lucifer had no biological drive to spread his seed and pass on his genes through procreation. He just wanted to create. Period. The cosmos, new forms of matter, the light spectrum, how the stars can shine in the twilight hours, species long since extinct, plantlife. 

Just a handful of stardust and Lucifer could bring something into what had been so much nothing.

Lucifer liked the process of creation. The sketches, the prototypes, the perfection and the perfect flaws at the end. There are literally thousands of universes that are just Lucifer’s rough drafts. 

And Dinosaurs might have been a bit much for Earth, in the end, but is is universally agreed they are really fucking cool.

Lucifer had not been part of the planning committee for humanity.

(He is glad, because he takes a sort of parental pride in his creations and, you know, with how it went with Lillith (and Eve 😜)...just ewwwwww otherwise.) 

Small miracles that those idiots in charge of setting up the starting line for the human race got something right. Humans were so independent, thoughtful, intelligent, even at the beginning. When it was just the original trio, they were stubborn, and possessive, and protective, and funny, and joyful, and ambitious, and loving, and hateful, and curious. 

Lucifer had not given them any of that. 

They already had it.

Adam was so strong and ambitious, with a crude sense of humor that made both of his wives roll their eyes, always looking for something new to hunt or build or eat.  Lillith spent hours studying the plant-life, or domesticating the kinder animals and freeing others from Adam’s traps, or exploring every corner of Eden. Eve was gentle, and kind, and so nurturing. 

And they were stuck in paradise, stagnated! They could all do so much more if they just had the chance! 

Lillith brought up having a baby every hundred years or so when the idea dug claws into her brain. She was like that. There was no puzzle, law of nature, or diplomatic crisis she could not unravel to its core. It was a mystery to her, at first, one of her puzzles to ponder in the afterglow of lovemaking.

But sinners could not procreate.

Lucifer was positive by then - again, conclusions based on extensive experimentation - that angels could not either.

(And no, Mr. Jesus Christ Superstar does not count, haha. Lucifer has heard all the debates on whether that was an executive level plan or a hoax or a plot by Lucifer himself to damn human souls into a false sense of security. No to the last, though it was entertaining to let that rumor linger for a few centuries. All Lucifer knows is he never got J.C. on his roster of new arrivals, so he must have at least practiced what he preached to some extent.)

(Inverted crosses are still all the rage in all Seven Rings of Hell, some two millenia later.)

And that gives Lucifer an idea to review Wiccan texts for symbols that Lucifer can match to his memories.

There had been so much experimenting - and, gotta say, Lucifer definitely saw the appeal of the breeding kink. It was Eden all over again. With more blood, fire, chains, gags, plugs, cloning…* blink, blink* …ehem…focus, Lucifer.

He flicks through several accounts of witch trials, taking cursory interest in the laymen drawings of Wiccan symbols. Nothing dangerous or violent. Protection spells, mostly. 

Anway, fucking like jackrabbits got way less fun after about three thousand years of disappointments.

Turns out it is possible to have too much of a good thing.

But they had done the impossible so many times together. Lillith would not give this puzzle up. They both were hopeful. They had all the time in the world but it felt like it was running through his hands like sand. His wife had asked him, her husband, for a family and he was failing her.

The Queen of Hell stopped staying in the royal bed, eventually. In the mornings, he would find her in this damn library, books and notes scattered across a corkboard. The Librari-imp (no, stupid and…offensive…? Lucifer has no clue what that little guy’s name is but Librari-imp is likely not it.) actually requested vacation time during that stretch. And - as previously stated, see above - Lucifier like never came in here to see if the guy was actually working or did performance reviews so Lillith must have been running him ragged.

Lucifer had rarely denied her anything within his power.

Besides, ya know, a concentrated attack on Heaven. Or, at least, a second one.

They figured it out, the baby thing, eventually. Well, Lillith did. The problem turned out to be an issue of unequal distribution of power between them. Lucifer’s magical spunk quite literally was scrambling Lillith’s eggs on impact. Which, he had been informed in a hellish appointment with Bel, are necessary to get a baby. Then Lillith became a sinner and - say it with him - sinners cannot procreate.  

Lillith needed power to rival his own.

So, a fuckton of power.

And Lucifer could not just give it to her. It would just be his own magic in another vessel. 

Lillith really got into Hell’s politics around that time. She made deals. A lot of deals. Like too many fucking deals. 

With an irrational pang of guilt, Lucifer calls an index of her deals from around the time of Charlie’s conception. 

There is a lot he never knew about his wife, his soul mate, his queen. 

Like how many fucking deals that bitch made using his throne as collateral. They were unenforceable. Basic contract law - you can only promise what you can give. But still. 

Some deals have heavy black ichor-inked redactions. Others are straight up burned to a little gem baggie of ashes. Money went in every direction. The books don’t add up. She spends more than she takes in but it levels out, somehow. There are deals where Lillith came out too far ahead, or others where she gained almost nothing. Sinners received hellborn royal staff positions or were put in “elected” offices. She wheeled and dealed for power like her purse was  bottomless and her rule in Hell was absolute. 

Then there were the incantations hidden in lines of sheet music - and music hidden in diagrams of incantations. Some spells are dormant. Others blow the helpful Librarian imp - Shit, Lucifer still does not know his name - through the glass ceiling. On the imp’s fifth revival, he threatened to quit after 200 generations of his family’s loyal service and Lucifer decided he would finish his experimentation later.

There hadn’t been a need to put a check on Lillith’s power, other than stifling her periodic efforts to work Hell’s population into a bloodthirsty frenzy to act as her uncontrollable army in an attack on Heaven. Exterminations were the trickiest part, when they came, with so many flying targets for Lillith and her goons. Lucifer’s creativity really found an outlet at that time of year. Pocket dimensions. Bondage (consensual). Bondage (not consensual nor sexual. The bed had gone ice cold that year.). Bee’s famous juice reduced to a simple syrup and soaked into a sponge cake. Moving the clock back twelve hours (he was surprised that one actually worked).

He knew her way. Heaven never would deal with her. They rejected any and all of Lillith’s suggestions when Lucifer was forced to answer their calls. Without fail, they knew if Lillith had a finger in the pie. Her magical signature, her damnation always tainted her suggestions, whether Lucifer delivered them in writing, verbally, or through telekinesis. 

It hurt her.

Of course it did. She wanted so badly to be in the room where it happened, and they pushed her down like playground bullies. Pissy idiots mad that she refused to play their game. The real ruler of Hell had been Lillith, or, at the very least, they were equals in their rule. Lucifer the brawn, Lillith the brains. Lucifer didn’t care sometimes to make the right decision. He had his opinion, and he assumed it was right if he had it at all. Lucifer was a seraphim - he hadn’t been created to govern or to conquer or, honestly, to possess. That was so… human.

They figured it out. Well, Lillith did. The baby making. Lucifier helped with the making part. Obviously. One very odd night of swirling stars, pentagrams, music notes, and complicated sigils and an unusually throughout fuck and, nine months later, little Charlie made her arrival.

Lillith figured it out. 

She always figured it out.

And he had been so damned proud of her. Lucifer was proud of both of his gals. 

He cannot find how she did it.

Oh, he knows one piece of that fucking nightmare recipe. It would not be enough on its own to generate the amount of power she needed, but it was a great fucking start.

Lucifer learned what it cost for Charlie’s birth and…it was too high. It was. He loves Charlie to death but he would have vetoed the idea if he had been consulted. The Devil is famous for having loose morals, but…

Lucifer could never stomach human sacrifice. 

Maybe it was the angelic grace Heaven couldn’t burn away when they threw him into the fiery Pits of Hells. Human sacrifice did not work for summoning him (he prefers veal, but any meat is acceptable). They did work as a power source for powerful spells. 

Sinners had received their final judgment, so Lucifer was not about to be precious about their afterlife punishments and/or expiration. Serial killers, rapists, abusers, greedy despots, drug dealers and corporate CEOs, they all got their due. 

Burn, baby, burn. 

But human sacrifice broke the scale somehow. Those who were sacrificed didn’t get judged. They didn’t end up a winner or a sinner. Their souls just…melted.

And to sacrifice a child. 

A living, human child.

A newborn…

Hell did not have many rules to be both an antithesis to Heaven, as those dickwads up above like to claim it is, and to minimize the time Lucifer - via the workaholic Sin known as Satan - has to spend enforcing them. But deals about the fate of humanity, and deals with those still among the living, were explicitly to be handled exclusively by Lucifer. 

He didn’t often bother heading upstairs, so it was a system that worked.

Lillith found just the right bunch of lunatics to do her bidding when Lucifer wasn’t paying attention.

The Fight.

Their first and only fight. They had no reason to fight, before. Lucifer gave Lillith a long leash, like she wanted. She handled the ruling bit of Hell, like she wanted. Their wants were harmonious. They had eternity to reach the stars, together, to wait Heaven out, to raise their daughter, the first true love story, the first marriage in history, the first everything for Lucifer, his bride, his wife, his queen.

Happy wife, happy life.

In the interest of honesty to oneself, Lucifer can admit marriage had been crumbling for centuries. It was the drop that overflowed the bucket. Lillith was no longer the Virgin Bride of Eden he fell for, nor the Devil’s Wife who taught him how to be a man, nor the Queen of Hell he worshiped to a fault. Over 10,000 years in Hell, amongst the damned and depraved, seduced by power herself, Lillith had changed and, finally, Lucifer could not play the fool.

The Fight.

The Fight.

The Fight.

Lucifer had never been a joyful angel - Heaven tended to typecast its characters - but he had been happy enough before the Fall. An artist, a creator, Lucifer was prone to melancholy even while in Heaven.

His Great Depression, as he liked to call it, began when Lillith took Charlie. So what if it probably influenced a similarly named event upstairs? Not Lucifier’s problem if his divinity continues to have lasting influence when he occasionally takes a vacation up north.

Okay, so maybe Lucifer did steal the name. 

When he drank, bad things tended to happen. Fall of Rome. The Dark Ages. The Spanish Inquisition (which Lucifer did not expect!). Pompeii. The Shaanxi Earthquake of 1556. 

Maybe they were coincidences.

But he made it a rule not to fucking drink. 

Oh yeah, did Lucifer mention that rule breaking was kinda his thing? The Tempter tempted the fuck out of himself. One drink too many and he’s fucking the bellhop. Fuck. It’s no Pompeii but the situation is pretty fucking bad.

It shouldn’t have been this fucking bad. Morning after regrets? Expected. Hangover? Deserved. Generalized awkwardness? No need! Lucifer had other places to be! He was important, King of Hell and all. 

The worst part was that it wasn’t even good sex.  Drunk sex was never good sex but Alastor had a special way of making it really, really fucking weird. Lucifer’s memory may be hazy but he’s experienced more passion in some board meetings than he had in Alastor’s bed. There was being a pillow princess and then there is whatever Alastor has going on. Sure, Lucifer got off on it and - unfortunately - in Alastor, but it very much was a self-driven situation. That creepy red fucker did not even seem to like having the Devil in this bed. Oh. That makes it sound so much wooooooorse.

Lucifer throws a probably priceless copy of some ancient sanskrit drabbles on Kamadeva clear across the miles long room. 

This is really bad.

Really, really bad.

Because Alastor is not only a bad person in addition to being a bad lay: Alastor is dangerous.  He is cunning, ambitious, and charming. It’s the charming sinners that always got the furthest in Hell.  Alastor uses his talents to capture an alarming number of souls, cannibalize his fellow sinners, commit truly atrocious acts of violence, and just all around be a total dick. 8 thousand years ago, Lucifer would have jailed Alastor’s soul to the Pits of Hells after a kangaroo court hearing over in Wrath and given Satan a flaming gold star for his service.

But then Lucifer lost the war and signed that damned contract agreeing that he couldn’t take personal possession of souls and that meant locking them up in the Pits. You wage one war too many against Heaven and suddenly no one trusts your mass incarceration of the most dangerous, bloodthirsty, powerful demons in existence. 

Lucifer does not trust Alastor. 

Not only for the above listed reasons but because Alastor told Lucifer point blank not to trust him. Not even in the sarcastic way he delivers most of his lines. With absolute sincere pride. Straight up bragging about how no one in Hell can ever trust Alastor, but that they would anyway. That they always would. 

Like, Lucifer can take a hint when it slaps him in the face. 

There is a method to this madness and Alastor is batshit insane.

Lucifer cannot figure out the scheme if he cannot even figure out how Alastor did it. Sinners cannot procreate. It comes back to that. Full circle. Sinners cannot procreate. They are dead. They literally reform after death so their innards are just squishy approximations of human anatomy. Otherwise, most of Hell’s - very creative and more than slightly concerning - booming porn industry would be animation.

And who wants to watch animation? Talk about a snooze fest! Plus, it takes such a long time. Hell is the land of instant gratification and no sinner is patient enough to wait years for a Season Two.*

It isn’t possible. 

It’s because of those squishy faux reproductive organs that Lucifer is not quite as concerned about the whole Alastor has a dick not a vagina part. Sinners are genderless, squishy, sacks of rotten meat. Sure, they can get hungry to feel like they are starving, they can feel pain to the point of feeling like they are dying, but they just regenerate if actually injured badly enough.

It isn’t possible. 

Sure, Lillith was a sinner but she was a prototype. And she didn’t really die. She was just plopped down in Hell directly. No regeneration necessary. It is the only reason they thought a baby was possible - she at least had those organs, even if Heaven flipped the off switch on her lady bits. A power could turn them back on. 

But if it was not possible, it would not have happened. 

It did happen. Lucifer does not trust Heaven, but he knows they don’t lie. They just stay quiet, hiding information, omitting it from the agenda. They might give other reasons for making contracts - reasons that are relevant but not central. They hand down decisions without context.

Heaven does not need to explain itself. Those in power never do. They play with their toys and, if a few get broken, they order a new one, same day delivery. 

Again, Alastor is insane with the taste of power that comes with being an Overlord. So, somehow he acquired power to rival the fucking sun and used it…to have a baby? 

A game is afoot and all Lucifer sees is a rubber band, an Uno Skip card, a hammer, a twelve-sided die, and seven Monopoly dollars. 

And it’s his move.

Alastor had not even denied any of it. He straight up told Lucifer he would not deviate from his plans. Ha, he was more focused on keeping Lucifer from getting close to the fruit of his labors than his own safety. Which, for a sinner like Alastor, leaves terrifying implications. Alastor was desperate to protect his brat when Lucifer handed him near unlimited terms. Playing the protective mother. Lucifer almost fell for that, until he took a moment to think.

Because Alastor’s little speech revealed the brat is more useful to Alastor’s purposes than anything Lucifer, Big Boss and King of Hell can give and HolyShitThisIsBadThisisBadThisisBad. 

Lucifer needs to figure out how Lillith did it so he can figure out how Alastor did it, and through that he might be able to finagle a deal with Heaven to stop it from happening again, and also maybe figure out what Alastor really wants so he can stop it before Heaven or Alastor or anyone hurts Charlie and, oh, Lucifer needs to sit down before he hyperventilates.

So far, what Lucifer has is that sinners cannot procreate. 

Except when they can.

Father Above, he needs a drink.

Notes:

*Viv, I can be sooooo patient. We sinners wait with bated breath for Season Two.
Yes, we will have a flashback of the one night stand. And it is not exactly how drunky Lucifer recalls.

Chapter 12

Notes:

Enjoy, Sinners!

To set the record straight, Alastor makes no move in the oversized chess game known as Hell without planning, at minimum, three moves ahead - with all the branches of possible countermoves laid out and considered. It is simply good strategy. To do otherwise invites impulsivity, and hasty decisions put a demon in chains. 

The game never starts with home ranks for either player. It is a chess board in which smaller chess boards nest within each square, a neverending mise en abyme, and all the games are well underway and codependent. Good strategy focuses on king safety, above all, and having an intimate understanding of each piece’s value. 

Alastor, of course, is king of his own game play.

The objective - in this game and chess - is to place the enemy king in check.

So Alastor sharpens his claws and goes on a king hunt.

His first move is to return to his cottage. The stench of Lucifer’s magic continues to be overwhelming. Wards, Alastor now sees, standing at his property line. Squinting through radio dials, Alastor sees tight ropes of shimmering red and glowing gold threads positively littering the place. Lucifer has placed wards not only around the perimeter, but has woven them so tightly through the fabric of the cottage that it repels the outside eye from recognizing its existence at all.

The packard puttered out about a hundred yards from the property line.

Alastor walks up to the cottage alone, ignoring the twitching instincts instructing him to return to the car, to his child, to get her away from this invading magic. His cane bounces as if on a trampoline with every step, two magnetic poles repelling at their field lines, Alastor's power clashing with Lucifer's spells, propelling Alastor forward in a precarious, slippery fashion.

His sensitive nose sniffs the air.

There is no new signature to betray a recent visit by the King of Hell. The magic here is settled. These are protection spells. Strong ones. Lucifer obviously thought Alastor’s next move would be further isolation, and provided unwelcome assistance. 

Some demons made it through Hell that way. Years of safety could be secured by remaining unseen, hiding from the bloodthirsty and cutthroat, finding safety in the shadows.

A bit of bad luck that shadows are a medium of the Radio Demon. 

The Radio Demon utilized hiding only as a tool for:

A. Information gathering

B. Sneak attack

C. Annoying hotel occupants

D. Any combination of the above

Vacation time is over. Alastor’s body is healed. His power - chaotic by nature - is back within his iron grip. His priorities have not shifted as much as expanded.  

There is no reason her presence should stymie his plans. For nearly a century, Alastor has been responsible for hundreds of souls at any given time. Several he considered an investment more than a source for power. Husker, for example: a fallen overlord, but with enough power for a comeback, if release is granted. If only he could put down the bottle. 

Addiction is a weakness.

A demon needs a clear head to play the game down here.

So, until then, Husker stays safe and sloshed in Alastor’s back pocket.

Niffty, clever little darling, is a true novelty! There have been many a demon to admire and fear the Radio Demon, but she was the first - and only - demon to gift her soul to him. He had not even known the transfer was in play until she grabbed his hand and shook. “For your stash!” She had giggled, maniacally, chattering on about how it tickled as a thick, glowing green chain snapped around her neck.

Alastor had removed that. It was part and parcel with soul contacts. But Niffty belonged to him by choice, and he respected that enough to give her the freedom to choose her service to him.

A wasted generosity as his wild card devotee was an enthusiastic volunteer to all measures of torment and torture, or vice versa.

For the rest, well, Alastor kept the rest in reserve for a future need.

This child is his, though not in the same way his soul contracts provide demon chattel to do his bidding. He does not own her. But he feels it to the core of his fractured soul that she is his.

She is a rarity, his child. The Radio Demon’s spawn. Bastard daughter of the Devil. The only Hellborn angel in history. His child shall be a marvel of demonic and angelic glory. All shall love her and despair.

Alastor need only safeguard her until she reaches maturity and can reach this potential. Then they will all see her ascension through Hell’s ranks, set with all the advantages the child of the Radio Demon can claim. Her rise will be glorious, for who knew what heights such a creature could reach?

That was many, many moves ahead, however.

Time to chase the King into check.

Alastor packs lightly, a bag of necessities, and summons his shadows to collect the remainder.

It is a bittersweet farewell to the little cottage. He never did spend much time here, even when he was being strategically absent from Pentagram City. These weeks had been a regrouping, a necessity. It had been surprisingly pleasant to be just Alastor again.

He steps on a stray mitt as he walks through the blackened kitchen and bends to pick it up. It is a match to a set Alastor knows to be too small now for his child’s fingers. Held between two fresh red claws, away from its intended recipient, so small against his claw, it causes the black heart in Alastor’s chest to constrict involuntarily. 

Sentimental nonsense.

Rosie is humming a jolly tune when he returns to the packard. His child is held high on her chest, so her ample bosom acts as a seat for the child’s bottom. Small fingers clumsily pick at the Overlord’s face. Rosie keeps her sharp teeth hidden behind lips pinched in a wide, doting smile.

The glow of her eyes - a hazy bluish shimmer, as if reflected off a lake’s surface - shines on the polished bone of the Overlord’s chin. 

A new development. Small, but noteworthy. The devil is in the details.

In part, at least.

Alastor tosses his knapsack into the packard’s backseat, arranges his child in her basket at his feet, and plasters a wide, false smile on his face. 

Let’s begin.

---

“You sure you don’t want me to come in, honey?” Rosie asks, a sharp elbow poking out of the driver’s side window, concern knit across her brow.

Alastor finishes tying the blood red damask sling across his chest before flashing his friend his winningmost smile. 

“My dear, your support has been priceless, genuinely sublime, but the Hazbin Hotel hardly inspires the eagers for me. ” He holds his monocle to the light, rubs it on the sling, and replaces it once satisfied. 

He flicks his hand in a jaunty wave before ascending the hotel stairs. The row of windows at the entrance catch his reflection and he adjusts his impeccable bow-tie out of habit. He woke up confident. His slim waist is nearly returned to the status quo. In practice this means his favorite red coat now rests in its rightful place on his person. Rosie’s magic tailoring skills have restored it to near perfection, leaving the tails tastefully tattered to add that touch of character. 

Rosie, the absolute doll, insisted on trimming up his locks so that his severe angled bob is razor sharp. The tips of his boots shine in the morning sun. The tips of his claws - a touch short for his preferences -  shone in the sun too, and Alastor swallowed his vanity as he tugged on a pair of soft leather gloves. The child is fed and a discrete binding around his chest an extra assurance against his damn traitorous, leaking nipples. 

Yes, the Radio Demon is confident and in full control. 

Tap 

Tap 

taptaptap

The door flings open so quickly the resulting pressure change sucks in the front Alastor’s hair and coat. 

Charlie steps into the threshold of the doorway, grinning wide, visibly holding back from flinging her arms around him.

“Alastor!” She squeals and hugs her arms around herself, vibrating from her effort at self control.

“Charlotte.” Alastor folds his hands behind his back, microphone tight in his grip, at the ready.

It is really quite worse than he had anticipated.

They tried, they always do.

They are hardly to blame that mediocrity is their default.

WELCOME HOME Al!!, reads a red and black banner across the lobby, a crude line drawing of a figure who must be Alastor, given the wide smile and antlers, incorporated into the O of Welcome and a wobbly drawing of his microphone in l of his name.

The floor is littered with confetti. A clear safety hazard. The lobby is a smattering of hotel staff and what remains of their residents, handmade paper tricorn hats on their heads.

The hotel’s sound system plays a jazz album suitable only for waiting rooms and elevators.

Niffty hangs from the banister, having used her deal’s glowing chains - how she manages to reforge them every time Alastor destroys them, he cannot begin to fathom - to hold her up. Judging by the installment of a slapdash shelf next to her holding a water jug, packaged snacks, and an assortment of knives, he guesses she has been there for some time. 

“ALASTOR!” She shrieks, swinging wildly on her chain.

“Niffty, my darling!” Alastor calls back, voice thick with radio static as he expresses genuine joy to see her. 

“You got the baby, sir?” She asks.

“Safe at my bosom.” He puts a hand on the outline of his child’s head in the sling.

Niffty stops her swinging and her mouth puckers downward, “You gonna stop being a bad boy now, Boss? Charlie said you were gonna to take care of the baby now.” She sounds upset.

Ahh, Niffty never fails to play her part, even without a script! It was a happy day in Hell the day Niffty forced her little soul into his bloody hands.

Alastor makes a show of caressing his child’s skull, sliding his hand down so he holds her in the cradle of his arm, and stares pointedly down at her peaceful sleeping face. Unnecessary support, given the sling, but a tableaux rarely reflects reality. 

He cannot help it if the edges of his sharp smile soften.

“Oh, I naturally must care for my child as any mother should. You see, she’s so very little and needs to be kept from harm, my dear.” He twirls his microphone between the fingers of his free hand, feedback warbling as he does, before pointing it at each sinner in turn. The room darkens and he paints a bit of extra shadow in the angles of his face. “Yes, as her mother, it is my role to find threats and destroy them, to rip them apart, to devour any who dare - “

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Message received.” Vaggie rolls her eye, arms crossed, as she leans against the bar with Husk, the two wearing matching frowns. 

The lights snap back to normal.

“It would be my pleasure to give a demonstration.” Alastor offers with a toothy grin and leans forward with both hands perched on his staff.

Niffty giggles and claps her hands.

The chain around her dissolves with a snap of Alastor’s fingers and Charlie dives to catch the little cyclops before she faceplants on the hard marble floor. 

Niffty appears distraught at the missed opportunity.

Flinging herself to her feet, she scutters across the floor and up Alastor’s back. The weight of her slight body on top of his head is another piece of the old Alastor put back together. 

He casts his eyes upward and smiles at her.

“She’s bigger!” She observes with surprise, eye wide, pushing forward to see over Alastor's bangs.

“Yes, she is.” Alastor’s smile - designed to keep his friends and enemies guessing! - betrays his pride.

“She’s got more hair! Why is it like that?”

Why indeed.

The question understandably draws the curiousoity of their audience. Alastor is soon surrounded by bold sinners, daring to come near his child. Luckily, their cooing and awwww-ing admiration soothes the static biting the air around him. Of course they should admire her! She is cuter than a bug’s ear, his daughter!

“That hair! I didn’t get a good look yesterday! What pretty curls! And she has grown - oh, my little lady, you are just the cutest!” Charlie gushes and Alastor catches a flash of pain cross her face.

Little lady. That had been a nickname Charlie bestowed on his child at the beginning, isn’t it? Was that a look of envy just now? Could the Princess of Hell still covet Alastor’s child?

She can choke on those sour grapes.

But a moment on the curls, if he may. That single waif of a curl present the first days of her life had rioted into cotton-light, cherry dipped blonde twirls, measuring just a few inches when straightened. It is, Alastor supposes, a significant change after a month. He hadn’t taken any particular notice of the change: it seemed to him she remained the same from day to day, but obviously she had outgrown her newborn gowns and mitts.

“Lucky kid.” Cherri-Bomb puts in, popping a large pink bubble. “All my sister’s kids lost their hair in the first week.”

“My brothers too.” Vaggie shares.

“Must be a demon thing.” Cherri shrugs, and pops another bubble.

Charlie’s hand hovers in the air, inches from the sleeping child. “I had a lot of hair as a baby. Hellish Times had this whole monthly contest to guess how long it grew. There was a betting pool among the Ars Goetia.” She pauses, clearly conflicted. “My dad rigged it, I think. His buddy Paimon won three times in a row. My Uncle Mam sued the paper.” She sighs. “It was a thing he talked about a lot. My Uncle Mam, I mean.”

“The papers reported on me a lot, back then. They sure were nicer when my mom was around.” Charlie steps back and clears her throat, but she does not seem to have any more to add.

The tabloids had eaten up any and all information about the Royal Family until Lillith's disappearance. Then they turned on the odd princess left in the shadow of her absent parents. Alastor paid more attention to the news in his younger days as a sinner. Every other headline had been a bit of Morningstar propaganda.

Princess Charlotte and her ***Morning*** Routine!

She’s on FIRE! Princess Charlotte Takes 1st Place with Flaming Baton Act!!

Queen Lillith Exclusive Interview: Balancing Motherhood and Ruling Hell

FIRED!!! “Maybe just have him do community service?”: Princess INSULTS Sin of Wrath during Internship. 

Princess Thesis: “A Study in Soul Composition and Environmental Effects on Quality” - *YAWN*

Palace Releases Pamphlet Series on Self-Improvement . WHO DA FUQ CARES!!!

“FATHERHOOD ISN’T A PRIORITY FOR [LUCIFER].” - Leaked Recordings of Queen Reveals Where It All Went Wrong_

There is little wonder how Charlie became the little ball of anxiety she is today.

Alastor grabs the opportunity for a change in subject, “Gossip is the sound of jealousy, my dear, and those rags drip with it. Why, we need only to look at this fine establishment to see how you prove them wrong! A bustling hotel, filled with trusting sinners ready to fling themselves on the sword of redemption. Tell me, my dear Charlie, how many have earned their halo in my absence?” 

Charlie winces, “None.” She admits in a small voice.

“I see, and how many have been further damned by your efforts?” 

That takes her aback. “Umm…none?” She scrunches her brow in confusion.

“So we continue to break even! Good job!” He grins even wider, as if pleased as punch by this information and holds out an arm.

She visibly relaxes into the offered side hug, huffs out an amused breath against his shoulder. “It sure wasn’t the same without you here, Al.” She says and finally loses her battle for self control, stroking a thumb across the apple of the child’s rosy cheek.

“So, uh, you goin' with ‘mom’, huh?” Angel says tearing down all Alastor’s work to move on. Far be it from Alastor - absorbed entirely with his child for the last month - to complain, but surely the visible chaos of the hotel was a more immediate concern?

Good heavens, a state of emergency should be declared for the area formerly known as the front desk!

“It is my relation to her. If it were a qualifier to be a woman to take the title, we would be in quite a paradox, I think.” Alastor throws a bit of canned laughter in the air in a vain effort to cover his embarrassment. It had not occurred to him that he could choose the title of father in this. He has no desire to play a role he had not been cast to. 

It is a simple fact.

Heaven is up, Hell is down, Alastor is her mother. 

“I hardly think you are one to comment, my effeminate fellow.” He sniffs and gives Angel - clothed, if it could be called that, in barely there shorts beneath a shredded tee - a pointed look up and down.

Angel holds up four hands, pink flushing across his neck, “Woah, woah, just makin' sure, ya know?” He looks so miserable that Alastor decides to be merciful.

“You may be sure.” Alastor turns on his heel to survey the lobby. The suggestion/complaint bin has overflowed and there are several towers of supply boxes needing to be unpacked. One box, in the middle of a stack, drips a green ooze.

The clipboard formerly containing the front desk checklist and order confirmations is missing from its nail.

It will take him weeks to sort.

Niffty makes a pained sound near his ear when he goes near the supply closet.

Well, hopefully his child enjoys sorting towels and toiletries, since it is clear the closet as is requires burning.

“I do believe our present schedule will work quite nicely to fix this mess.” Alastor says to himself. 

His child answers anyway in a wiggling stretch across his chest and a breathy yawn.

“Yes, with frequent breaks, I agree.” 

A squeaky whine gives him warning that, unless he amends the arrangement, she will lodge a very vocal complaint at the front desk. Literally. After holding up an elbow to assist Niffty in her disembarkment, Alastor unwraps the sling from his chest. His child’s cheeks are especially flushed from the heat and, with several blinks of her big blue eyes, she causes Charlie and Angel to break into a frenzy of cute aggression, the two biting their fists and jumping up and down.

Alastor - pained by the state of his once organized and sophisticated (as far as the circus accent can be ignored) lobby - leads the parade into the parlor. He sits in the large plush armchair. The screaming ache in his lower back thanks him.

“A’right, I’m dying here, Smiles! Wuddya land on fer a name?” Angel leans against the princess, one hand clutching his breast, two digging nails into her hands as the two experience another spasm of energy. 

Alastor blinks. 

“Come again?” 

His audience straightens up immediately, sharing looks with one other.

Alastor blinks again.

Husk, having remained behind the bar for the entirety of Alastor’s welcome, now leans against the parlor door. He barks out a laugh and tips his bottle towards the Overlord.

“Ya gotta be kiddin’ me, Boss. You did not forget to name your own kid.” But the smirk on the bartender’s face shows he knows Alastor has done just that.

Alastor wonders if he's avoided fracturing Husker's soul into a million pieces on a sunk cost fallacy.

Why had Rosie not brought this to his attention? Alastor knows names exist; he has assumed several in his time! However, he had not considered that naming the child fell under his responsibilities as her mother. All her needs were amply met: food, shelter, comfort, protection. He fed her from his own fucking nipples, for fuck’s sake. She has not lacked for anything for not having a name! 

Except, perhaps…a name.

His smile feels tense on his face.

“Alastor?” Charlie asks.

“One does not rush these matters.” He recovers, adjusting the fall of his child’s dress. 

His nameless child’s dress.

Oh, that does sound bad.

“It’s been a month.” Vaggie deadpans.

“Time flies, and all.” Alastor snaps, smile angling into a snarl. The confidence he stepped into this infernal place with has shriveled up in his chest. His fingers adjust the child’s tiny bow - a match to his own bowtie - in her hair, tugging with a touch too much force and unraveling the knot entirely. The pull discomforts the obviously overwhelmed infant and her lip starts to quiver.

Alastor runs a finger along the profile of her jaw in apology. She turns her head to suck at his claw and whines when he withdraws. The responding rush through his chest is sharp. Comfort, he reminds himself, she is looking for comfort, not food. She just ate. What she needs is comfort.

His movements are jerky as he adjusts her to lie against him, her head tucked under his chin, just as she likes. Despite a full body, unreasonable little thing that she is, her head swivels about his shirt in search of a snack. He anchors her to him with one hand spread across her back and summons her treasured skull binky with the other. Her puckered lips suck it in with an audible pop!

And pop! the carved bone shield hits the side of his monocle as his (nameless) child spits it out and up. Her superb aim causes a crack to spider across the glass.

The worthless assembly of idiots continue to stare at him.

He should really charge admission to this shitshow that is now his afterlife.

The glass repairs itself with a resounding snap of his fingers.

With a wave of his hand and a whoosh of etheric wind, he manifests a stormcloud above them and fills it with a heavy dose of static, relieving some of the pressure building in his ears. Lightning zip zaps through the cloud, flashing green and white interchangeably and occasionally settling back into its original grey-black.

His - how could he forget a name - child transfers her attention to the flashing lights, accepting his offer of entertainment. She does not smile, but her wide eyes - flashing green as they reflect the tinted lightning - are proof that she is a fan of his work.

“Neat.” Angel comments, slurping a beverage from an outrageously long, twisted phallic straw.

“A parlor trick.” Alastor jokes weakly, with a twirl of his free hand to gesture to the room at large, and plays a badumtsk! to let out a bit more steam. 

The static hum in the room tickles even his familiar skin.

“So you are working on names.” Charlie says slowly, a bit delayed, as if recovering from a shock. 

“Yeah, c'mon, Mr. Fancy Talk, you gotta have some ideas in that big brain a yours.” Angel grins, his mouth taking up the majority of his wide face as his brow angles sharp over his eyes, “Or ya could always name her afta your favorite star.” Dramatic pause. “Angel!”

Alastor tries to dampen the screech of record scratch before it rips through the air and fails.

A loud THUNK thunk CRASH from the lobby covers the slip.

Power thrums through the air.

Not his.

Ahead of schedule.

Alastor is on his feet and moving in an instant. He calls on his shadows and nestles his child into the pocket of protection they offer. Shadow flies from behind the armchair and circles the swirling, snapping mass of his brethren.

“What - ?” Charlie is interrupted by the deep resounding voice of the King of Hell.

“Charlie? CHARLIE!” 

The demonic gravel of it is a warning that the Devil approaches in all his demonic glory. The temperature of the room rises with every breath. The ground shivers.

“Charlie!” 

Husker is pushed out of the way by a very angry, very demonic King of Hell.

“Dad?” Charlie exchanges a surprised look with Vaggie. “Dad, where have you been?”

The Devil ignores her.

“You.” His glowing red eyes focus on Alastor and the growl of a primordial being grumbles up his throat. “You motherfucker.”

Balls of hellfire overwhelm the Devil’s hands, ready to smite the soul of the poor sinner in his crosshairs. 

“Language, Sire! Not in front of the children!” Alastor tuts and shakes his head, mocking the King of Hell. 

Green and black flames lick at the end of his own staff. 

The King of Hell steps into the room. The flames between his horns spread to cover his head, his neck, his shoulders, until they feed directing into the billowing flames in his palms.

Alastor’s antlers crack and branch out as he calls on his own power, mind numbing as he transforms into the horror that he can be, that he is. 

The Radio Demon takes a step forward.

His head, never stable in this form, begins to rock like a metronome. 

Your move, King of Hell.

The Devil takes a step. The heat of the hellfire makes the Radio Demon’s unfastened shoulders ache with memory. His shadows twist and writhe at his feet, their whisper like silk or a prayer against the ground.

“Leave my daughter alone, fucker!” The Devil growls, brimstone rolling around in his rr’s. 

The Radio Demon’s head stops keeping time. His neck ends up bent at a sharp angle to the right. He rights it with a sharp craaaaaaaack!  

Alastor's move.

/Which one?/ The Radio Demon says through the shadows, lips numb from the cold, expression frozen stiff as ichor invades his veins. Bone, muscle, tissue, and blood dissolve into shadow. 

The Radio Demon reforms between Charlie and Vaggie.

Black smoke billows from the Devil’s lips and blood dribbles down his chine. 

He takes a step.

Then another.

Ah, ah, ah! The Radio Demon thinks. That’s cheating.

And sends a shadow tendril to wrap around the Devil’s ankles, pulling taut, but his mark stomps it to bits, taking a step backward in the process.

That’s better.

Charlie steps forward, hands out, looking frantically between the two opponents. 

“Dad! Alastor! Stop! Both of you - stop this!” 

She trips on a stray bit of plastic confetti.

Safety hazarded, just as predicted! 

Sound bites of sirens - WEE-oww-WEE-oww - collide and snap mid-air, sliced through by rogue radio waves and feedback loops.

HAhha//AaaA!ah/Aaa!AA/ha/a/aAa!

The Radio Demon cackles, the sound high and distorted as he drags it through a hundred radio filters, shredding his vocals for the taste of static and blood.

He steps over Charlie with one long step. Looming. Breaking. Unhinged. A mess of eldritch and static and shadow and icey flame.

The hellfire in the Devil’s hands condenses and twists into a thick golden chain. He takes another step. The chains clunk together as they swing. 

“Dad!” 

The Radio Demon takes another step.

“Dad, stop it!”

The golden chain lassos his neck and he is yanked to his knees. It tightens, and it is like he is given a dose of sanity injected right in his brain, like a lance has slices right into a boil and drained him of static and ichor.

Alastor breathes hard and stares into the hellfire eyes of the King of Hell.

“Let him go!” “Woah, lay off, short king!” “Sir! Charlie! Sir!” “The ultimate bad boy hehehehehe!” “Can we all just calm down? Please?” “This is way better than pay-per-view!”

The Devil doesn’t flinch. 

“Why put her in danger?” He asks, voice normalizing. “You made your position clear. I accepted it. Why come for Charlie?”

Lucifer yanks the golden chain and Alastor chokes. 

“I told you she needed to be safe.” 

“Charlie is a perfectly capable adult. No thanks to you.” Alastor sneers. 

The Devil’s voice is thick with brimstone as he leans down, pulling Alastor up in tandem, a mere breath away. 

Your move.

“No games, Sinner.” 

“Dad, you have to stop!” The Princess of Hell grabs the chain between them. Alastor gags when she pulls yanks out of her father’s control. With a sturdy chunk of her own hellfire, she smashes and breaks the links.

“Charlie, no!” Lucifer - unable to retract his horns or dampen his eyes - grabs his daughter around her middle and drags her away from the coughing sinner. “He’s done…something. Something bad.”

“Done what?” Charlie wails, squirming against his hold.

“I - I don’t know. I’m working on it. But Charlie, he is hiding a…something, something that puts all of us at risk. I know  - “

“What? What do you know, Sire? What have I done?” Alastor baits.

“Charlie, Alastor has a child.” Lucifer squares his shoulders, as if challenging the Overlord to deny it, to deny her. “Tell her, you manipulative sonuvabitch.”

Wrong move.

“Dad? We know.” Charlie helps Alastor up at his elbow. “We were there.” 

Lucifer blinks and the fire goes - literally - from his eyes.

“Huh?”

“Did you not get my messages?”

Lucifer shoves a hand into his suit pocket, brandishing his phone like a sword. He stabs his fingers - wisps of smoke puffing up as they connect - and the tinny voice of an automatic system plays:

“You have 22 new messages from ‘Char-Char’”

*BEEP*

“Wow, I didn’t know you even had voicemail set up. Okay, so, this is Charlie. And Vaggie! Alastor had a moment and you know how you said to call you if I needed back up? Soooo, I do not think Al would ever hurt me but…it would be nice if you came over. Just as back up. We can make it a movie night. Thanks, Dad. I’ll try you again in a bit.”

*BEEP*

“Hi Dad, I really, really, really, really, really need you to come to the hotel. Right now. Alastor just…had a baby? Holy shit, that’s weird to say out loud. Hahahaaaa…fuuuck. And, uhh, he isn’t doing too good. Oh - wha..Okay, so, um, he’s like droopy - I mean, like, in a sleepy way and sleep…that’s bad, right? He lost a lot of blood. I think he’s really hurt, Dad. There is a lot of blood and…Dad, I’m really, really scared. Alastor is hurt. I need your help. Please, please get over here.”

*BEEP*

“Charlie again. Wow, you are busy, huh? So, uhh, yeah. Al had a baby. Literally gave birth. Here. At the hotel. So, that’s new. Uh, could you come over here please? I have some questions and maybe you can help us out here.”

*BEEP*

“Hi Dad. The baby is okay…I think. I’m taking care of her. I’m taking care of a baby! Umm, the thing iiiiiiis I don’t know what to do! Dad, could you please call me? Or just come over when you get this.”

*BEEP*

“Hi, Dad. Charlie again. Your daughter. So Al is still sleeping. He’s breathing. Actually, could you…? Yeah. Okay, yup, he is still breathing. But he, like, won’t wake up and I’m really freaking out here. Please call me as soon as you get this. Or come here, I mean, I would prefer that but call if you can’t. I sent some texts too. A lot of texts. And a few emails. Do you still use your beeper? I'm thinking no. Annnnd…um, ‘kay, talk to you soon… hopefully… ”

*BEEP*

“Hi, Dad. So, still waiting on that call back…sitting here with Al. And a baby. Al’s baby. Ohmygod. Holy Fuck, you are Alastor’s baby. That…I really need you to call me, Dad. I think Aunt Bel should come look at Al. He is still a little sleepy. I mean, he is sleeping. Hahaha I don’t know why I said it like that! He is definitely sleeping. But more like passed out?  I think the baby is okay - I gave her some goat milk, like Mom said I got, but I want to make sure I’m remembering things right. Um, call me? Or text is okay too! Or come over here? Email? Anything.”

*BEEP*

“Sooooooo, the baby might be a….you know, I should probably not say this over the phone. But it might be kinda important that you know about this, you in particular, if you know what I mean. Cause your, like, Lucifer. Like, it might be a thing. Call me asap Dad.”

*BEEP*

“Charlie here. Um, yeah. Call me back. Soon.”

*BEEP*

“Dad - kinda freaking out here. Call me. Please.”

*BEEP*

“Hey! So now I’m worried about you too. Are you okay? Pick up.”

*BEEP*

“HOLY FUCKING SHITBALLS! CAN’T YOU PICK UP YOUR GODDAMN PHONE! JUST ONCE! ARGH!”

*BEEP*

“ FUCK.”

*BEEP*

“YOU.”

*BEEP*

“FUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOU! / Charlie! / MY DAD WON’T -”

*BEEP*

“So, I am so sorry for the last few messages. Just had a teensy tiny freak out there. I did some breathing exercises and I have my tea and I am perfectly calm and rational now. Please call me back. Soon. Uh, this is Charlie.”

*BEEP*

“Hey, Dad - Alastor is awake now. Up and walking. Ummmm, he said some things and I think… I think I’m in over my head here! A little fatherly advice would help right about now? So it would be amazing if you could answer me. Like…oh, shit , I don’t know how to do this, Dad. I really need you right now.”

*BEEP*

“Dad, Aunt Bel needs a travel permit and she can’t reach you. Call her. She turned her ringer on max volume.”

*BEEP*

“Charlie. Again. Fuck. Shhhhh , it’s okay…it’s okay…lalalalalala…Sorry, Dad. Call me.”

*BEEP*

“- to Pride without my dad’s approval and I guess I can send her another message but, trust me, Aunt Bel - oh, shit , I buttdialed my Dad - wh-”

*BEEP*

“Dad!…I fucked up…*sob*…*sob*....*deep breath* why won’t you answer me?! What did I do? *sob* What did I do? Oh, fuck, what did I do?” 

*BEEP*

“Listen, Cabrón! No me jodas hoy -” 

Vaggie visibly panics at the sound of her own voice and plucks the cellular device clean out of the King’s palm. Tap! Tap! Tap! and the audience can finally break out of the trance those voicemails had put them all under.

Alastor really should have charged admission.

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.”

Neither Morningstar has the courage to face the other.

But it’s Alastor’s move.

“Whatever were you doing that was ever so important, Your Majesty?” He asks, returning to his default stance, straight backed, hand and cane tucked behind his back.

Lucifer hisses - hisses! - at Alastor. 

“Dad?” 

Charlie steps forward, once, twice, and then puts herself directly in front of Alastor, shielding him from her father’s wrath.

Lucifer drops his gaze, still unable to meet his daughter’s eyes.

“Heaven. I was in Heaven.” He confesses in a small voice.

“For a month?” Charlie’s voice cracks as if something cracks inside her.

“Time is a bit funny up there. You know the ol’ adage ‘time flies when you’re having fun’? Yeah, it crawls by down here. Sinners get a bit more bang for their buck that way. So really I was only gone…not that long.” 

“You were in Heaven for a month!”

“Charlie, he is hiding an angel. He did something, he is up to something. Charlie - !” 

“I know the baby’s an angel, Dad. Or angelic, at least. I’ve known. I tried to tell you.” Charlie’s jaw tightens. “What are you hiding?” 

“Me?” Lucifer presses his hands to his chest, eyes bugging out in surprise. 

“Why were you in Heaven? For a month. You were gone for a month.” She rakes a hand through her blonde hair, the red underside flipping out in the disturbance, “What if something had happened? No, fuck that. Something did happen. I needed you and you weren’t here!”

Lucifer has retreated into himself, shoulders curved. He has summoned his apple cane at some point and holds it in front of his face as a rather stupid shield.

“I…it was important, Charlie. I-I’m sorry. I came back as soon as I knew something was wrong! When I learned what he did!”

“What did I do, Sire?” He quirks his head. 

Your moOove, Alastor’s inner voice sing songs.

“What did you do?!” Lucifer shrieks. A black gloved hand grabs a fistful of his blond hair, knocking his hat clean off his head, one eye inverts, and, hunched over, the King looks quite mad as a hatter - sans hat, of course.

“You got pregnant!” 

Alastor can’t hide the slide of his smile. 

“Obviously.” 

“How?!” 

Alastor’s move.

“Oh, Sire, do you truly wish for a play by play? I daresay it was not your finest showing…”

(“Oh shit!” Angel whispers.)

Then Alastor leans forward, pitching his voice to a staticky and oh so audible hiss: “unless my scoring system is flawed?”

He snaps an elaborate sportsball scoreboard into existence above Lucifer’s head. It glows green in its outline and display. 

 

5:37

TIME

QTR

1

LUCIFER                        ALASTOR

2              -             0

(“Ohhhh, short king.” Angel groans, not without sympathy.)

“Not that!” Lucifer waves frantically at the manifestation and it breaks apart like a cloud, the green glow of the words Lucifer and Alastor colliding mid-air and scrambling. 

With a nudge of power, Alastor convinces the letters F-A-I-L-U-R-E to glow just a touch longer, in that order, above Lucifer’s head.

An upwards glance by the King sets the fading green letters aflame, burning them bright and leaving a smoking afterimage.

F-A-I-L-U-R-E

“Oh, fuck you.” Lucifer glares at Alastor.

What a set up!

“Oh, you did, Sire. And here we are!”

Charlie clears her throat and the two straighten immediately.

“Oh. Yeah. That…that makes sense.” She says, eyes trained on the floor. “You know, Al, you could have told me.”

“My dear,” Alastor presses a hand to his chest. “Your father made it quite clear I was not to speak of that…what did you call it, Sire, embarrassment? Mistake? A wholly terrible, drunken decision? Oh, I suppose you used all those terms that morning after…” 

(“Oh shiiiiiit!” )

(“Shut up, Angel!”)

“Okay, listen here, pal!” Lucifer begins. His face is positively glowing with his golden blush! “Embarrass me. I don’t care. But you cannot put Charlie in danger with your schemes. Alastor - they won’t let you keep her, I told you that. Don’t be stupid!”

Alastor sniffs, and readjusts his posture to stand tall, betraying nothing of the jitters in his nerves and itching panic in his hindbrain. 

She’s safe in the shadows.  

“Dad, what’s going on?” Charlie lifts her gaze back to her father. 

Lucifer’s move.

“Heaven knows, Honey. About the baby.” The King of Hell explains, having recovered his hat from the floor, he now twists his hands on its brim. “They - the archangels - my brothers - they want her there. To live. She’s an angel, Char-Char.”

Alastor's move.

“They can’t have her. I told you. She’s mine. ” He interjects. His static starts to spike again, popping and snapping, with a high sizzle of frequency growing.

“Did you tell Al to give up his baby to Heaven? Is that why you went there? Because they were demanding Al’s baby?” She asks, volume and pitch of her voice rising with each new question, horror dawning on her face, betrayal in her eyes.

“Ah, well…it came up during our discussion.”

Charlie shakes her head, somehow looking even more distraught after that nonanswer that was such an answer, “I don’t understand…why were you there, Dad?” She is nearly yelling now.

Lucifer's move.

“Renegotiating the contract with Heaven. It’s complicated. I’ll handle it, sweetie.” Lucifer looks miserable, a small, pathetic demon that Alastor might crush underfoot if he did not know the power hidden behind the facade. “I’ll move back in here for now. Heaven is never happy when they don’t get their way, and they expected the angel at the Embassy, like, yesterday. It’s best if I stay close by when they realize it ain’t happening.”

“No.” Charlie whispers, eyes closed. “You should go.”

Lucifer snaps his head up.

“Charlie?”

“You should go, Dad.” She says louder, stronger. “I…please go. We can all help Al deal with Heaven, now we know it’s a problem. But I don’t think you should be here.”

“You don’t understand, Heaven -”

“Go tell Heaven to fuck themselves!” Her demonic form flitters across her features and a bit of heat smolders in her snarl. “You can do it at your next family meeting.”

“No, Charlie, let me - "

“I don’t want you here, Dad!”

Charlie turns her back on her father. Alastor can now see tears stream down her rosy cheeks. She's hurt, and it's not just her clinically excessive level of empathy behind it. So, when Alastor holds out his arms, he is not surprised how quickly she accepts the comfort on offer, rubbing her snotty nose on his freshly pressed coat. If it isn’t one fluid, it’s another, these days.

Alastor's move.

He grins at the King above the Princess's blonde head

Lucifer - expression shattered - manages to hold back the tears in his glowing golden eyes as he leaves in a swirl of sparkling red and gold.

Check.

 

Notes:

Finally, THE scene. THE scene that sparked the fic. The goddamn scoreboard - yes, this fic came just from the idea of Alastor embarrassing Lucifer by putting their orgasm count on a scoreboard - has been an obsession of mine for like four months now. I hope it hits like I've envisioned.

Chapter 13

10 MONTHS EARLIER*

*(give or take a week or two)

The Hazbin Hotel is a proud sponsor of Free Speech. However, freedom of speech is not freedom from consequences, and some discussions will get you a meeting with Charlie Morningstar to discuss why one feels the need to discuss certain topics and how one can work through one’s feelings in voluntary (per Charlie) / mandatory (per Vaggie - the deadly ex-exorcist with the pointy angelic spear) individual therapy sessions. 

With so few residents of the Hotel, those therapy sessions are quite without time frames. 

Alastor, as hotelier, of course, is exempt from such tortures but finds it best to honor the Princess’s delicate sensibilities to remain in her good graces.

The Rules of the Hazbin Hotel are generally limited to “do your best!” and “do what Charlie says so you can do your best.” Which, though entertaining to watch the blind lead the blind, does seem to defeat the idea of self-actualization the Princess’s paramour seems to endorse. 

Well, no one here actually seems to be getting to that mythical redemption so it’s probably all a wash. 

It had been a revelation to learn that Heaven has no clue how a soul makes the cut for a grace-filled afterlife. It also left the Hotel with the issue of discerning what exactly keeps a soul out of Heaven. There have been several heated - but oh so entertaining - meetings on that very subject. 

Eventually, it was decided that each sinner would have their own portfolio, that they identify their ‘sins’ with the help of Charlie and Vaggie, and receive a personalized list of Rules upon signing an agreement to “do their best!” in exchange for room, board, and the Radio Demon’s protection. 

What a bargain!

Of course, there are some more standard Rules put into every contract.

Two of more specific and heavily enforced Rules are as follows:

1. No consuming alcohol and other drugs to excess (also known as the “Don’t Get Sloppy” Rule)
2. Do not brag about one’s success in matters of homicide, violence (domestic or otherwise), cannibalism, sexual assault/abuse, enslavement of others, and/or any other act done without the express and enthusiastic consent of the other actor(s).

Again, Alastor never signed a contract to abide by these Rules but by and large toes the line.

Unless crossing it proves more entertaining.

(It always does.)

It’s date night for the two lovely proprietresses - the only ones who actually enforce said Rules - so the line has been tied up, thrown in a trunk, and driven off a cliff for tonight.

So the ‘core four’ - as that two-bit hack known as the King of Hell keeps calling them-  are joyfully breaking the rules while the mother hens are away.

It is not a drinking game. 

Alastor does not play drinking games. 

It is simply a tasting.

A tasting of entire shots/glasses of alcohol, with the name/nature/type of the drink needing to relate in some fashion to the one served the prior round. If the group deems the drink to be below the mark - either not clever enough or insufficiently tied to the previous drink’s theme - the poor server is forced to consume the lot. 

Alastor does not intend to lose.

The tasting. 

It is not a drinking game.

For example, Lucifer started them off with a glass of Apfelwein. Alastor followed up that soft pitch with a double pour of Calvados. Husker grabbed that bottle and mixed up a round of Angel Face cocktails (gin, apricot brandy, and Calvados). Angel Dust - pleased as a rum punch to have worked in his namesake cocktail in the first round - forces Husker to mix up four Angel Dust cocktails (vanilla schnapps, Frangelico hazelnut liqueur, milk, whipped cream).

“And swallow me down, boys!” The Pornstar shouts and follows his own advice, an off-white creamy schnapps-stache staining the snow white fur around his wide mouth.

Alastor sips his own and recoils in disgust at its sweetness. 

“This is sooooo good!” Lucifer buzzes at his side. He downs his with obvious pleasure.

Angel’s grin drips…something. In addition to the alcoholic remnants of his drink. He winks at the King.

“Oh, one taste and he’s begging for more!”

“I would definitely have more!”

“Oh, reeeeeally…?”

Alastor slides his own drink at the little king and hopes his glare is enough to stop whatever is happening. 

Luckily, it seems Husker feels the same.

“As I was saying,” The Bartender says, back in his rightful place behind the bar as he mixes his next offering to the group. “So this crazy ol’ bitch just starts hacking right where I just polished with a fucking hatchet, chantin’ about the Lord and damnation, clear off her rocker, scaring away the payin’ customers. I’m feelin’ all sorts a’ ways but I never hit a woman, even an ol’ nut like her. ‘Sides the liquor’s already clean out the bottles. So, this Bitch sees me pull out my flask and grabs it outta my hand! Right ‘fore she leaves - I shit you not - she downs that fucker and shouts at me to lick the floor for my taste of the devil. ”

“Kinky.” Angel comments, winking at Lucifer once more.

“The temperance movement did bring out the most righteous lunatics this side of the asylum.” Alastor finds himself agreeing with Husk. It is not a particularly rare phenomena as the Cat Demon ran in the same circles as Alastor when alive, even if they were two ships passing in the night while still on that mortal coil.

“Idiots.” Lucifer agrees as he pushes away another drained glass of milky spirits. “Make it forbidden and the fruit tastes sweeter.”

“You’d know, eh, short king?” Angel winks again - is it possible some stray bodily fluid has lodged itself in his eye? Hopefully it will become infected.

Lucifer drops his gaze to the counter. “‘Suppose that’s on me. Poor choice of words.”

There’s something like regret threaded in that tone and Alastor’s gut twists in disgust at that.

Husker pulls double duty in preventing awkward situations by sliding four Whiskey Highballs down the bar. 

“Anyways, got into running ‘round that time to build back stock and pay off the bills. Shot a couple of buttons the same week and figured my scales were set.” He huffs an unamused laugh. “Stupid fuckers brought billy clubs. Figured they earned some lead in their teeth for being so goddamn stupid.”

Angel raised his glass, “Sames. Couple a’ dummies tried ta ambush me and my lil’ bro wit’ a couple a’ tire irons. My pops got the first wit’ a ‘pop pop pop’ and I got the second with a ‘pop’ and we got a street unda our control, no plannin’ or nothin’. Pops was real proud a’ me that night, t’get my first done with ‘fore I was sixteen. Youngest in da family.” He slammed the rest of his drink, then grabbed Husk’s remaining half, ignoring the indignant hey! from his friend. “‘Bout the only night he was eva proud a’ me.”

Glasses empty, Alastor takes the opportunity to serve his own pre-planned drink: his best recreation of the famous Café Brulot Diabolique (cinnamon, cloves, lemon peel, sugar, brandy, strong black coffee) - and does not care when Lucifer blushes at his choice - and shares several of his own murderous exploits in New Orleans.

Angel manages to look even paler than usual after Alastor tells the tale of the only double homicide he committed earthside, in which he tied one brother to a tree in the bayou to watch as the other was fed piece by piece to the gators, and then left him for dead, entails hanging loose like stings of Mardi Gras beads into the swamp water.

Those pedophiles deserved worse, but Alastor had been in a bit of a creative slump at the time.

“Come now! The man surely left that mortal coil within minutes! An alligator never passes up an easy meal.” Alastor sips his drink, smiling over the rim. “Besides, they can climb trees.”

“Oh, fuck no! Someone else betta start talkin’ before Freaky Face starts up again.” 

The three turn to Lucifer…

…who shrugs in return.

“My turn to pour, I think. Damn it, what the actual fuck am I supposed do with me? Alastor, you accursed asshole!” Lucifer scratches his head and then jumps behind the bar, running a finger along labels as if searching for inspiration. 

“Tut tut, your highness, out so soon?”

It is not a drinking game.

But Alastor so loves to win.

Lucifer grins wickedly, “Nah, I think a round of New Orlean's inspired Mint Juleps are in order!” and gets to muddling mint.

Which had been one of Alastor’s planned drinks in their not-drinking-game.

Alastor should be more upset about this thievery of future drink selections in this not-drinking-game. That he isn’t…isn’t like him.

He blames it on the drink. Not many souls can claim they were served a mint julep by the Devil himself.

The conversation sidetracks into disposal of corpses, and then laments how improvements in investigative sciences would have made it all so dull if they were alive today.

Angel Dust joins the King behind the bar for his own turn, standing too close, leaning into the royal space too much, just being too much. 

After an excessive amount of shaking - in which, Angel performed a bit of a dance on top of the bar and went into the splits to pour - four ‘Dirty Girl Scout’ shots (creme de menthe, irish creme liqueur, vodka) sat vibrant and green before them. 

There is not a chance in Hell that is passing Alastor’s lips.

He looks Angel right in the eye as he pushes the shot glass across the bar to Lucifer, his appointed sink for the night.

That monstrosity apparently gave Lucifer some of the inspiration he had been missing. None of the three had the heart to remind the King of Hell that he had to take turns. Within no time, four stemmed glasses of Champagne Daisy (champagne, brandy, grenadine, lemon juice) cocktails were soon emptied and joined the pile of glassware at the other end of the bar. 

Alastor nearly jumps ahead of Husker again to avoid another drink meant to sugarcoat his teeth or guts, but the Bartender grumbles some assurance to the Overland and pours four very sour Sidecars (brandy, orange liquor, lemon juice). 

While mixing, Angel resurrects their nearly flatlined conversation.

“Ya know, it was how we survived back in my day. Kill or be killed. Jus’ a way a life.”

“Mine too.” Husk agrees and hands Alastor a glass.

Their eyes meet. They both ran in violent circles down South. They both left bodies in the Mississippi’s dark waters or for the gators without a pause or a prayer. It had been the way to survive, for men like them, wanderers with an itch in their blood for something more than making more mouths to feed or working until the grim reaper punched their ticket.

“It was life.” Alastor adds, bold enough to say it plain. 

“Get caught an’ it wassa quick drop an’ a sudden stop.” Husker chuckled.

“Ah, my friend, therein lies the rub for most. Not I, of course, rather prolific as I was, if I may say. Variety is the spice of life, even in dealing out death! If one got lazy, got set in his ways, stayed in one place, he got caught. Simple.”

“Didn’t you live in New Orleans? It wasn’t the biggest city. Right?” Lucifer asks, face twisted with the aftershocks of the drink.

Alastor sips his drink, careful to keep his own face composed, “I owned several residences, including the apartment in New Orleans, my estate outside the city, another residence in Charleston, and, for a very short time, a holding in New York.”

“Hang on!” Angel swivels so fast in his seat that his drink sloshes down his signature elbow-length pink satin gloves.

“Please.” Alastor rolls his eyes. “Unless you were familiar with a very predatory producer on the Upper East Side, you have no cause for alarm.”

Too late, the drinks already well on their way to drunk, Angel starts the first challenge of the night on Husker’s sidecar. He argues that just taking ingredients from the last drink and making a new drink was cheating - and whom Lucifer pisses off by arguing against - that the entire (not a) game started with apple flavors - and, to the surprise of all, Alastor joins by arguing thematically the drinks succeeds because the character Daisy in The Great Gatsby commits vehicular homicide, and isn’t murder a sort of catchall card for this evening’s entertainments?

When given the floor in his own defense, Husk grumbles “yeah, all that,” and, really, the jury has been acting as defense counsel and the case rests there.

Angel files for civil damages and somehow - well, not so much a mystery with anywhere between 6-12 drinks in each jury member - he is barely allowed to skip the line to order Husk to make Fuzzy Navels (peach schnapps, orange juice).

Who retaliates by “accidentally” tipping his drink into Angel’s lap.

While the Pornstar threatens the Bartender with a jackknife - and how Charlie or Vaggie haven't found that in his room to confiscate, Alastor is very interested to know- Alastor pushes his glass to Lucifer, who drinks it down without hesitation.

Alastor mixes, shakes, and strains out four glasses of Bee’s Knees (gin, honey syrup, lemon juice, and orange juice, lemon peel).

Again - with something to prove or just a demonstration of the impulsiveness that led to his death by overdose - Angel jumps the line to make Blow Job shots (amaretto, irish cream, whipped cream to top), loudly slurs out how it relates to the bee’s knees , and offers to take all four shots while ‘in posheshion.’ 

Lucifer takes both his own and Alastor’s before the latter is even pushed to him.

“I’ve never done it…” The King says quietly to Alastor as their companions work on the next masterpiece in a shot glass. “...killed someone.”

He seems embarrassed.

“Have you not, Sire?” Alastor says, surprised, not only that the Devil has managed to keep his hands clean but that he is handing raw vulnerability on a plate to the Radio Demon, with all the risk of the secret being part of his next broadcast.

Lucifer pushes his two shot glasses together and the tinktinktink catches Husk’s attention.

“Yeah, yeah. Is comin’.” His words are starting to slur. But the Bartender had been steadily making his way through a bottle of Jack in addition to that evening’s offerings, so there was no shame in that level of inebriation finally showing its woozy head. 

“I never had a reason to.” Lucifer whispers.

“Then you may count yourself blessed on that front, Sire.” Alastor whispers back.

“Coupla Cumshots!” Husk sets down the glasses with a surprising amount of stability. 

“What.” 

Alastor really should work on his “set fire with glares” skills so moments like these can be dealt with swiftly and proportionately.

“Ballies and Furrball.” 

Which cannot possibly be the ingredients but neither Lucifer nor Angel Dust seems concerned with the questionable recitation.

Alastor is about to lodge the appropriate complaint - with himself, he supposes, as hotelier - when Lucifer takes his shot as well.

“Isna fun iffy tase it fer ya!” The Pornstar’s blood alcohol content has apparently tipped past his own tolerance as well. 

Barely two hours.

Amateurs.

---

Lucifer is in his room. 

Alastor invited Lucifer to his room.

And Lucifer accepted.

It had been an offhand comment with only a smidgen of sincerity. Alastor had been mocking the other teetotallers at the bar - under the table in a little over dozen drinks, humph! - and made a half-hearted offer that they sample a real drink in his suite.

Husk and Angel turned green at the very idea. Hell made lightweights of gangsters and runners, Alastor always did think one risked growing complacent here.

But Lucifer accepted.

“Impressive. Beautiful. And impressive.” The King of Hell, the Devil, says of Alastor’s bayou, moving his head slowly on a swivel to take it all in. 

Perhaps the drink has gone a bit to Alastor’s own head. That compliment turns his cheshire smile genuine. Feeling light on his feet, floating on that praise and surrounded by his own power, Alastor diverts their course from his originally intended destination of the gator den to the still. 

“Smells sweet.” Lucifer comments happily.

“Nearly there, Sire! Mind the roots.” 

Despite being in literal Hell and a century away from the government and its agents, Alastor has tucked the still behind the largest cyprus tree in his pocket dimension, crafting that area to be far drier than the original source material had been.

“Father Above, but you lot did figure it all out, didn’t you?” Lucifer whistles and sways to study the simple machinery closer. “You all really started with nothing. Not fire, not grain, much less tools. You figured it out anyway.”

The white jacket and hat got discarded at some point at the bar, the gloves and golden chains went somewhere between the stairs and the bayou. His sleeves are pushed up to reveal the lines where his alabaster skin fades to black.

Burnt, Alastor realizes, he’s burnt.  

The skin is slightly raised; scarred at the transition. Alastor wonders if it would be rough to the touch, even after all these millenia. Then wonders how such a ridiculous thought came to his normally rational mind and shakes it away.

Alastor reaches an arm past Lucifer to grab a jug of thrice run and corked moonshine nestled within the tree’s roots. A simple blend of spice (cinnamon, licorice, orange peel, a touch of ginger), apples, and honey, to cut the burn. He does not make the stuff often - liquor being more a means to vice than a vice itself - and it is the only recipe he recalls from a summer spent learning the craft when he was fifteen or so. 

“You humans.” Lucifer steps away, shaking his head fondly. 

“Not down here.” Alastor points out.

He starts walking the soggy path back to the less swampy area of his room.

Lucifer catches up, slipping an arm through Alastor’s, leaning heavily on the appendage, requiring Alastor to pull the surprisingly heavy body along the path. He’s drunk. But it’s so hard to remember that when the little king chatters on, words crisp and happy, easygoing as a man on a summer stroll.

“Here too. Humanity isn’t lost with new bodies or…” He wiggles the fingers of his left hand. A burst of golden dragonflies scatter like a firework into the delicate ecosystem. “magic. Trust me. Sinners these days are not like the first crop all the way back when! Technology improves, the languages change, the dancing gets so much worse, but the basics stay the same.” 

“Sinning, I presume?” Alastor maneuvers Lucifer with a gentle tug away from a particularly muddy area. 

“Yeah, the eternal damnation of your immortal souls. The basics.” Lucifer snorts, elbowing Alastor in the ribs where they are linked.

“Ah ah, here at the Hazbin Hotel we don’t believe such heavenly propaganda! Damnation, verified. Eternity, but with what evidence, I ask you?” 

It is hardly the most controversial of comments. A touch flippant, for all that Charlie has devoted her whole being to the savior of her people, but delivered with less sarcasm than usual. Really, Lucifer should be praising Alastor for such lip service!

But Lucifer’s face goes dark and he slips away from the crook of Alastor’s arm. His wet boots squeak with each step, and squish on the carpet. 

He does not leave, much to Alastor’s continued surprise.

(Delight?)

The boots get thrown, underhand in a wide arc, clear across the room and into the tub of the ensuite washroom with a plun-plunk ! Lucifer looks down at the stained legs of his trousers - damp to his knees - and with a snap! strips down to a pair of candy striper boxers to match his wrinkled vest.

A peak at the bathroom confirms the dripping pants now hang haphazardly on the shower head.

Alastor slumps more than sits on the floor at the foot of the bed. Chairs be damned with his remnants of his black soul! Cups, too, may be more the done thing when entertaining royalty, but this is Lucifer, and Alastor does try to meet his guests where they are at. 

The King is a warm presence at his side. 

He nudges Alastor once more. The gentle pressure of it leaves him tingling. The liquor in his stomach sloshes and burns something awful. This is a bad idea. They are far too close and all his masks have slipped away. He is terrified that, given a mirror, he might find his smile has turned upside down.

Ever the gentleman, Alastor offers the jug of moonshine whiskey to his guest.

“Ackkkchh, woooa-ooooh!” Lucifer coughs and exclaims, pounding a fist on his chest.

“Oh, fair warning, it burns a touch on the way down.” Alastor says, waving a hand absently.

“Not fair if the warning - ackh, Sweet Lord in Heaven! - comes after I drink the liquid fire, asshole.” 

Alastor takes a long slug of the homemade brew. There’s no helping the twitch of his own expression. The spirit is about as close to actual poison as it gets. The burn spreads down his long throat and sets fire to the alcohol already heavy in the pit of his stomach. The fumes must go to his head because the radio waves spark with snippets of an oft sung warbly song.

"🎵How sad and still tonight,

by the old distillery,

And how the cob-webs cob,

on the old machinery.🎵"

Bert Williams crones, voice thick with radio static, and Alastor closes his eyes to hear him.

"🎵But in the mountain tops,

far from the eyes of cops,

Oh how the moon shines on

the moonshine, so merrily!🎵"

Lucifer puts on his best game face and takes another modest sip. Then he catches the challenge in Alastor’s eyes and downs a more ambitious one, two, three swallows. Coughing, chuckling, and, oh, it’s Alastor’s own tenor giggles playing harmony to Lucifer’s baritone. 

The radio waves latch onto that duet, manipulating and shaping the sound until the disembodied voices of King and Demon waver on the air, thick with radio overlay, as if they too were preserved on a 78 RPM record.

"🎵🎵Goodness me, how misery doubles,

Ain't one thing to use for bubbles,

Or to drive away your troubles,

For the tide has gone and went

"So, mister, if you please,

Don't let nobody sneeze,

Up where the moon shines

On the moonshine, so sillily🎵🎵"

“You’re very talented.” Lucifer says as the last notes fade away. 

“Good for moonshine and song! A crying shame that I’m wretched at parties!” Alastor jests, throwing his arms out wide, microphone nearly toppling him sideways as the world spins.

“Don’t play at modesty with me.” The Sin of Pride admonishes with a grin and a wink.

Alastor takes another swig to avoid figuring out how to respond to that.

Lucifer grabs at the handle - aim more than a little off - and slugs back another swallow too.

“Gawd, what a poison! Alcohol! Whew!” The King’s cheeks glow as bright as his golden eyes in the dim room.

Alastor hums, “‘Shining and hunting were about the only lessons I got from my father.” He slumps his dizzy head back, his height allowing him just the right angle that his heavy head lay on the bed while the mattress supports his sore neck. “One has more practical use in my afterlife than the other.”

“Dunno, wildlife is scarce in these modern times.” Lucifer grins.

“There will always be game in season for this hunter, Your Majesty.” Alastor holds up a finger - as if to make a point - and he can feel it sway in the air.

Lucifer’s laugh is warm and golden. Without the advantage of height to reach the mattress-cum-shelf, he settles his blond cranium on Alastor’s bony shoulder.

“Ya know, you never struck me as a backwoods joe type. What with the fancy talk and all the la-de-da rich boy vibes.”

Alastor scoffs, “I was very fancy and very rich, thank you. Did you think I spoke through my hat downstairs? I inherited an extremely lucrative shipping company and an expansive estate upon my mother’s husband’s death. Well-off barely scratches the surface.” He hears the bitter note cut through his radio filter and clears his throat.

“Your father. Your mother’s husband.” The King’s brains had not yet been addled enough to miss that bit of distinction.

“Let us say I was born on the wrong side of the blanket but in a feather bed and leave it there.”

Lucifer’s fingers toy with the button at Alastor’s shirt cuff. 

Where had his coat gone?

“Tell me about New York.”

"🎵New York, New York!🎵" Alastor sings, accompanied by the blast of a big band instrumental. Too loud. He winces and waves away the last note of a lingering, stubborn trumpet.

“Alastor.”

 Lucifer’s thumb strokes his wrist now, strumming the tendons and veins that jut against the thin skin there. His pads of his blackened fingers are leathery, almost coarse, as they caress the sensitive area. 

“Very well. I purchased a rather elegant apartment on a wave of overconfidence.” Alastor may need a bit more liquid courage. He reaches over his companion again to suck at the jug’s lip. When he holds it to Lucifer’s mouth, the King obliges, and holds the fire before swallowing it down. 

The movement of his throat distracts Alastor.

“Alastor?” The King nuzzles his head back into the stretch Alastor’s long neck.

The blond hair is as soft as it looks. It tickles his throat.

“Radio. I started up my own station in New Orleans, with some of my rich-ness. It was popular. I was good.” Alastor feels it is important Lucifer understands this. “I was good. It was easy to be all charm and debonair when the audience stayed behind the curtain. My show played mostly in the jukes in the City proper, but the outskirts could catch it some nights. My audience liked my show.”

“I know, Alastor. I know.”

“I got an offer. From New York. They had heard my show while in New Orleans. They said my voice was perfect. I was good. Everyone agreed it was my big break.” He tries to laugh but his lips feel numb. He needs to check with his fingers - shaking - that, yes sirree, his smile has not finally fallen down. 

He never talks about this. 

He never talked about it, afterwards.

“They only did the surface research though. They knew I came from money, had a good name, was well-spoken and well-educated.”

“What happened, Al?” Lucifer’s fingers have caught his erstwhile ones and locked them together, threaded tight.

“They saw me.” He whispers and pulls his knees up to his chest.

The room spins as he adjusts his long body into a ball, but Lucifer’s weight at his side keeps him steady. He lets his own fingers press into the leather ones anchoring him down.

“I was a shade too dark for entertainment, you see. No one wants to see the world in color!” He tries to put on his jolly radio voice but it sounds flat in his own ears.

Lucifer shakes his head against Alastor’s shoulder. Wetness soaks through the thin fabric of his dress shirt. “But it was radio. I mean…it shouldn’t have mattered anyway…but they just needed your voice, right?” 

“Oh, the Klan had fingers in most pies back then, and I just so happened to catch the ear of the New York branch of their bakery. That producer had me blacklisted in the City and it was over.” Alastor buries his hot face into the blond curls tickling his chin. 

“Humans.” Lucifer breathes. 

“Yes,” Alastor agrees. “I did kill him, but you knew that.”

“I’m not omniscient. I know your sins, not your reasons.”

“Too much paperwork?”

“Alastor… I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, hush. I was privileged, my dear! Plantation owner, remember! Woe is me, a door closed on my poor rich face.”

“No one should treat-”

“No? But we do. That is to be human, dear Lucifer. To chain your fellow man and beat him ‘til he stops complaining. To look in the mirror and know the best move is to keep your face in the shadows.”  Alastor’s voice breaks on that and he coughs against a thick lump of ichor or tears in his throat. “Oh, perhaps my contracts were more fair than my neighbors. I ensured the roofs did not leak too badly, and that the children had food in their bellies and school to learn their letters. But, Lucifer, I never freed my slaves.”

“But you were born post-”

Alastor laughs, amusement and bitterness, and the air shifts with the dissonance of the sound. 

“My dear, do not tell me you believed that cockamamie called abolition! No, we repackaged slavery with a shiny bow and called it sharecropping, but it was slavery, my dear. The same families owned the land. The same families worked the land. My blood kin worked the land. The illiterate signed ironclad contracts, and the cycle of credit and inevitable debt kept the system working just fine.”

Alastor accepts a swallow when the jug is pressed to his lips. The spirit is hitting him hard now, and the words spill out thick and quick as blood from a slit throat.

“Do you want to know the worst of it, my dearest Lucifer?” He whispers.

He can feel Lucifer’s throat work against his collarbone, taking another gulp of liquid courage.

“Yes.” He replies, soft as sin.

“The man holding the whip never was my mother’s husband, nor myself after, nor even our overseers. No, the driver, a slave himself, just a step above the rest, held the whip. And he used it freely on his fellow man. That’s humanity for you.”

Alastor breathes into the staticky silence for some time after that. His companion drapes an arm across his heaving chest and one of those delicate hands strokes the nap of his neck, where the hair is shaved tight to his skull. The other hand still threads through Alastor’s long fingers, palm to palm, heavy and oh so delicate.

The smell of whiskey and apples and licorice is overwhelming. 

“Let go of that weight, Alastor. You were one man, a flawed man, but one man alone. Don’t carry that guilt with you forever.”

“Hypocrite.”

Lucifer laughs, a heavy version of that golden sound, and it wraps Alastor in its light as it breaks through the heaviness that had covered them.

“Oh, I do like you like this!”

“Hmm?”

“Volume down. Spotlight off. No performance, no show.” Lucifer lips move against Alastor’s neck as he speaks, leaving something like butterfly kisses or static shocks along his skin.

“All of Hell’s a stage, my dear, and we sinners merely players.”

Lucifer pulls away - the shock of cold air on Alastor’s body should have sobered him but it only makes him lean forward in the King’s departure - to gesture down at the remnants of his ringmaster’s suit.

“One man in his time plays many parts. You might consider your next act, Alastor.”

The King of Hell stares over at the Overlord with lidded eyes. 

All in all, the two have managed to remain coherent and mostly upright considering a sample of their breath could blow out the average roadside drunkometer. Neither have vomited. The conversation veered a bit too personal for Alastor’s taste, but there was really nothing revealed that some dedicated research and time could not have dug up.

Alastor decides to reward his composure with another drink.

It takes three seconds too long to realize his lips have not found the cool lip of the moonshine jug. 

He sucks in anyway, tasting whiskey and apples, and the moan that move pulls from his companion should have set him straight but no, Alastor’s mouth keeps sucking on the plump lip he had managed to find in the darkness. And, oh, it is not dark at all. Alastor has simply closed his eyes.

Lucifer kisses him back. His famed silver tongue licks at Alastor’s lips, perhaps searching for further intoxication as well. Those small hands both hold tight onto the nape of Alastor’s neck now. Lucifer whimpers into his mouth and his forked tongue grows more forthright in its demands for entrance. 

That’s…nice, Alastor decides. Or feels nice, that is. The practice of trading spit is unlikely to have any inherent morality. Not like murder, or slavery, or ahhhh-

One of those leather hands has made its way under Alastor’s shirt and slides along his abdomen, up the dip in his chest cavity, along the protruding collar bones. Two rogue fingers pinch a nipple on their way down.

“Ahggk!” He chokes, or gulps, the sound coming out more guttural than vocal.

“Shhhhh.” Lucifer soothes against his lips and resumes the battle to subdue Alastor’s tongue into subjection.

Hypocrite. 

It’s Lucifer who is moaning and whimpering like a feral cat in heat with each breath! Meanwhile, Alastor is hanging on for dear life as his body decides to, what, surrender?

Unacceptable.

Alastor fights back.

He pushes one hand into those messy blond locks as another curves around Lucifer’s neck, finger pads pressing in just enough to feel the messy thud of a heartbeat. Then he scrapes his fingers downwards, pressing firm against Lucifer’s burning body, claws tearing through fabric. The hand in Lucifer’s hair tugs as the other grips bruises into the sharp angles of a hip, both actions managing to pull Lucifer flush against him.

“Oh okay! Hol’ on…” 

Lucifer ends up in Alastor’s lap, slim thighs straddling his waist, hands clutching onto his broad shoulders, whimpering intelligible pleas. Terribly sweet sounds slip from those dark bruised lips. Alastor does not like sweet, as a preference, but he growls low in his throat to capture the taste of Lucifer again. Another moan vibrates along his tongue. It could be from his own throat or Lucifer’s and it does not matter at all because either way those wondrous sounds are now Alastor’s to add to his vast collection.

The heat in his belly is an inferno.

Lucifer’s cock, perhaps sentient (it is Hell and Alastor’s situation with Shadow leaves him with no room to judge), makes a valiant effort to stoke that fire further and succeeds only in poking Alastor in the stomach.

Repeatedly.

Clumsily.

Alastor grins sharp as glass at his companion and nearly immediately diverts his gaze to nip at Lucifer’s smooth chin. Those golden eyes are terribly bright now, twin North Stars giving off a false sense of direction. 

But Alastor never has gotten this far, in life or death, and that realization douses some of the heat in his gut. 

Rock solid flesh continues to grind against his bony hip and that must be painful. The noises emitting from Lucifer tell another story. Swaying back, Alastor notes the deep crease between Lucifer’s brows, the tense set of his open mouth, the flush of gold lighting up the exposed skin of his chest.

And when had his shirt gotten torn so?

Lucifer jerks Alastor back against him, frantic almost, panting and whimpering in Alastor’s sensitive ears, cockstand now jutting into the - more soft, granted - hollow of his partner’s belly.

Curiosity winning out, Alastor slides a hand along Lucifer’s bare thigh, over his boxers, finds the weapon beating into his body and - 

Lucifer…snaps? Well, not literally, as Alastor snaps together and apart between forms. All the tenseness winds tight through his small frame and breaks apart in a hitched breath, a high pitched moan, and, finally, an anguished groan.

Broken, he practically slithers off Alastor’s lap and curls himself into a ball, face burrowing between his knees, arms wrapped around his head.

Alastor is not quite sure what just happened. The fire in his belly has dwindled to a familiar, though unpleasant, sensation of his digestive tract attempting to filter a variety of alcohol and sugar on an empty stomach. It had been pleasant, and Lucifer had been so lovely. 

Inexperienced, no, virginal - and what an abhorrent word to apply to an Overlord of his age and depravity - well, Alastor has no guide to know where he is going, has been, or should be. 

“My dear?” He whispers, radio overlay thick as an unconscious layer of defense against Lucifer’s reaction.

“M’sorry.” Muffled, but discernible. 

“For…?” 

Silence.

Alastor’s static - a wobbly crackle, really more of a harmonic clash of trills and eighth notes with this level of inebriation - is suddenly very, very loud.

The ball formerly known as Lucifer, King of Hell, mumbles out something that, honestly, Alastor is very much trying to piece apart but even his sensitive hearing needs a bit more to go on.

“What?”

Another muffled whine, louder, more pitched. Less clear.

“Lucifer -”

The blazing gold face emerges from its makeshift hidey-hole between his knees. 

“I said that’s never happened before!”

The damp patch on his boxers is that context given without askance, thank you very much.

Oh.

“I-I’m good at this. I think…I thought? Fuck!” 

Oh.

 So are they done now?

Well. That is all rather anti-climatic.

Or too climatic?

Alastor’s head is too heavy to pick which one. 

For himself, well, certainly not the latter, but not really the former either.

Lucifer lets out a long, shaky sigh, and seems to gather some of the pieces of that legendary pride to him.

“I am good at this…” He strokes the back of his hand down Alastor’s cheek, fingertips outlining his angled jaw, and, finally, presses an index finger under his pointed chin so he has no choice but to stare into Lucifer’s half-lidded eyes. “Dealer’s choice. Your deal.”

One does not reside in Hell for nearly a century without being exposed to all variety of sexual deviancies. Though he has done a superb job thus far of staying above that riff-raff, being in the same airspace as Angel Dust, famous pornstar and all around exhibitionist, Alastor could probably cite several acts heard in passing conversation during this fateful day alone. 

Unfortunately, the portion of his brain that unwillingly holds that information is offline at the moment, short circuited from overload and/or alcohol exposure. Server error. Unavailable due to electrical fire. Please call the HelpDesk.

That the only spark of information produced by his poor, broken brain travels right through those faulty wires and past his lips should not be a reflection of depravity on Alastor’s part.

Those golden eyes are waiting.

“Sexual Intercourse?” His voice is all sorts of wrong! Unsure, questioning, free of static and confidence and all the best features that make him the Radio Demon.

The electrical issues appear to be catching, if the rapidly blinking of Lucifer’s eyes and bobbing mouth are any indication.

“Yeah? Yeah! Um, give me a minute, maybe?” He scrambles to his knees, toppling over and colliding into Alastor’s chest with a hard thump.

Too late to turn back now. 

Lucifer may be the Sin of Pride, but Alastor perfected the sin itself.

Alastor catches him by the shoulders, steadying him, “Perhaps the bed, Sire?” He suggests. 

That is where this is supposed to happen right?

“Holyshitholyshitholyshit! ” Lucifer’s seems to have gotten stuck on that mantra as he climbs onto the mattress like a half-drowned cat.

On the bed, properly located, they spend an awkward moment staring at one another.

“Soooooooo.” Lucifer lets out a long breath. “You have a preference orrrrrr…I don’t, I mean I do , but, you know, dealer’s choice.”

This is ridiculous. 

“I don’t. Get on with it.”

Lucifer holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. Hesitates. Then scootches forward on his knees so the front of their thighs press together. He reaches up to touch Alastor’s chest. Then changes his mind and drops his hand back to his side. 

For fuck’s sake…

“Umpfh!”

Alastor captures Lucifer’s mouth in a hard kiss. It seems to restore some confidence to the little king. Hands resume their earlier explorations, grabbing at Alastor’s ass, tracing the outline of his slim waist, toying lightly with a sensitive, clothed nipple until Alastor slaps that hand away. Hitting that deadend, the hand chooses to pull at the tight seam of his trousers. 

Cracking one eye open, Alastor sees the King is bare at the waist, boxers turned into an over-large anklet on his left foot, and, oh yes, he is once again standing at attention.

There is another awkward moment when Alastor shimmies out of his trousers and undershorts.

He lays on his back, bare, breathing hard, waiting for the King to make the next move.

“Do you have…?”

“Hmm?”

“Uh, um, ya know… lube?”

“...”

“Okay. Okay. I got this. Come on, Lucifer! You got this."

'Got this' approximately translated to a wave of slippery, fragrant oil staining the bottom of Alastor’s once perfectly nice shirt, the cuffs of Lucifer’s own shirt, and a 6 inch circumstance of the bedsheets. 

“Fuck, sorry!”

This threatens to spin the King into another episode of embarrassed despair and that is not what Alastor needs at this time. He is so close to getting, well, he is not quite sure what, but something. The embers in his belly are stoked back to flames by every firm caress of Lucifer’s hands, by the panting against his skin, by the glow of those golden eyes.

There is no polite way to say it: Alastor grabs Lucifer’s cock and strokes. 

The hardness of it is surprising (delightful) under his hand, with hardly any give to his tight grasp and fire hot to the touch. Lucifer cries out, a heady sound, and Alastor chases it with a twist of his wrist at the base, a light slide of fingers down the rigid length, a light scratch of his sharp claws back up the shaft, another tight fisted pull down and up, down and up, down and up, a moment to swipe a thumb over the head and…

“Fuck, Al, stop! ” Lucifer grunts, face scrunched in something like pain. “Okay. I gotta…on your… fuck… turn over.”

The first finger is a surprise, for certain. 

Alastor is not so innocent that it is entirely a surprise - he had seen the path they were taking about three turns ago - but it is…odd. Wrong. His body fights it, trying to clench Lucifer out.

“Shhh, shhhh, relax, baby. Oh seven hells, you are lovely. Relax. Breathe. Like that, let me in, Alastor, let me in, please, baby, one more now, breathe deep, that’s it, oh Alastor, oh baby, fucking hell, you are taking it so good, baby, like that…”

Alastor follows Lucifer’s voice like the beacon it is. He breathes, tries to relax, adjusts his position so his knees curl beneath him so the questing fingers have an easier go at it. This is the right move, it seems. Lucifer stops his digital explorations and a new, larger, intruder presses against his hole.

The thick nub of the cock pushes in. And Alastor did not realize how big it is until it is searing a path right to his spine. Hands act as vice grips on his hips, holding him down, pulling him back onto that neverending cock. There is a groan from somewhere behind him as Lucifer - finally - bottoms out. 

They breathe together. Lucifer is mumbling some nonsense at his back, moaning and gasping, generally being a nuisance about it all. Alastor’s claws puncture the bed as he holds steady.

“Get on with it.” He demands.

Lucifer does not need to be told twice. 

He thrusts.

Slowly, at first, for the first two or three movements.

But then he moans, breathing fast, and his claws snick into the skin of Alastor's hips as he gives it a little more, and then a lot more.

Adjusting the angle, murmuring praise, gratitude, and for all Alastor cares, platitudes. Lucifer manages to hit something that sends jolt of sensation cascading throughout Alastor's nether regions. He yelps. Lucifer, encouraged by this, seems determined to keep this line of attack up and keeps at that the angle, and the thrusts, and the pressure, and the fire, magic thrumming around them, glowing with their energy, alive in that fire, and it's too much, it's too much, it's too - 

"Fuuuck!"

Alastor can feel Lucifer's warm release empty deep within him.

It's over then.

Relieved, Alastor shudders his own breaths in chorus with Lucifer. 

"Fuck!" Lucifer curses again, voice panting and raspy, slick forehead resting on Alastor's lower back. "Ahh, fucking hell!"

He pulls out, leaving Alastor aching. Viscous fluid drips out of him, down his cheeks, onto the bed sheets.

The two lay side by side on their backs.

Lucifer, eyes already closed, breathing steadying by the second, reaches a hand over general area of Alastor's hips.

"Lemme-"

Alastor catches that wandering hand before it can locate his soft cock. He does not recall if he became erect at all. Surely he must have. Earlier in the night, perhaps? It seems inconsequential in the grand scheme of it all but Lucifer obviously seems to believe it otherwise.

"Lemme help-"

"All is well, my dear. Sleep now." Alastor draws the small hand to his lips to bestow a rare kiss. 

"Wassit good?" Lucifer slurs, half asleep.

"Yes, Lucifer. It was good."

They will need to talk about it tomorrow, whatever it is between them, so they can, of course, explain it to Charlie, and the others, and, most importantly, to themselves.

But that can wait until morning.

Alastor rests his heavy, swimming head against Lucifer's chest and lets sleep take him.

Notes:

Apparently I don't know how to keep any chapter short. This was supposed to be the short chapter of my week.

See you Friday! (JK EDIT 5/30: I procrastinated too long and I'm not rushing it out tonight. Will post tomorrow, probably early afternoon. Sorry. But I have never met a deadline I wasn't ready to blow past.)

Chapter 14

“And here we are!” 

Of all the ridiculous absurdities of Alastor’s afterlife, his gauging the approval of an infant on high level magic is up there with those predatory soul insurance companies and Vox’s continued existence. Yet - here he is, studying the limited range of expression on his child’s face. 

Blue eyes? Glowing, focused. Mostly on Alastor’s face.

Button nose? Twitching. Though, with her constant attempts to turn her cheek into his chest, she may be more interested in the smell of her supper. 

Cupid’s bow mouth? Pink tongue poking out as if tasting the thick, swampy air. 

Fingers? Giving their all to escape their cotton prisons.

“Thank you, thank you. Hold your applause ‘til the end.” He mutters sarcastically.

Soft, squishy ground sucks at his boots, reluctantly letting him take his next step.

“You and me both owe our lives to the bayou, my dear, you more than me, and a bit of respect is due.” The reeds of a weeping willow briefly catch his antlers, and he flaps at the curtain with a bit less respect than he demands of his child. “Do as I say, not as I do!”

He stoops to pick up a feather, examines it, and discards it with a flick.

Too tattered.

The damn bird certainly has his pick of hiding places.

The wildlife in the bayou is intentional, as any spell of Alastor must be to be accomplished with any level of success, but oft times elusory. In the first edition of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor had kept it all a bit tidier than the original source material. He did not so hold back in the second edition, reveling in the sprawling, unforgiving nature of his memories. He spilled a bit of trickery in the marshes, and added a bit cunning in the critters who called this illusion home. It made the hunting more interesting and helped the ecosystem self-sustain in times of his absence. So, even after a month without his touch, the bayou thrives.

Alastor’s boots slop on.

A golden dragonfly lands on the child’s nose. She sneezes. The damned insect flutters both pairs of its wings and keeps its perch. She goes cross-eyed staring at it and her eyes glow even more for the focus she gives. 

Cool blue reflects off the insect’s warm golden glow and it is such a pretty sight that Alastor’s cold, dead heart could melt.

He snatches the damn thing between two fingers and pops its head like a grape.

Tearing off the wings, he discards the mutilated body into a pool of brackish water.

They wander a bit longer off the beaten path. Alastor squeezes between trees. His trousers are soaked to mid-thigh as he traverses the deeper sections of the marsh. He all but gives it up for lost when he spots a fallen nest on the ground. Looking up, he sees several others high above. He gives Shadow a flick of a brow and away the corporal darkness goes, spinning up the tree, startling one of the sleeping fish crows and settling them all off with a chorus of mechanical rattles and pitched uh-uhs!

A single, shiny black feather floats down, guided by Shadow’s cupped hands, right into Alastor’s palm

“Thank you, ladies!” Alastor calls after the departing murder.

The trek back to the room is nearly as uneventful. His child returns to her snooze for the boredom of it. It takes Alastor far too long to capture to find a scrap of soaked, stinking snake skin hanging on a branch. No killing. That much was clear, when it came to snakes, at least. They were too revered, too powerful in life to be sacrificed for a bit of spellwork.

Insects were less precious. 

Alastor carefully unties the sling from his chest and transfers the child into the stylish black and red bassinet. He next lays out his spoils on his dresser table. Snake skin, feather, wings, several cut roots, a blue iris petal. It feels silly. It had been a bit of childish fear that drove Alastor to the bayou, as it always seemed to. 

Manually, with a traditional flint striker, Alastor lights an incense stick and begins.

He slips out of his coat and lays it next to the marshy collection. From this, he snips out a patch at the bottom with a small pair of silver scissors. Rosie will have his hide for it, but, if he is going to do the damn fool thing, he will do it well. Silver thread and needle help him make the scrap of fabric into a sturdy pouch, sewn by hand, whispers of his magic entering into the fabric through direct contact with his fingers.

Gris-gris had captured a passing interest in Alastor’s life. They had played a much larger role in his death: a boost of power, a shift of luck, a coating of protection. As his power grew, so did his ability to heal faster, fight harder, and win without the help of gris-gris talisman. Voodoo magic, insofar as it concern the branch of 'white magic', is resistant his demonic power but not immune. It’s a struggle to force the dual forces of his nature to work together but not impossible. 

When it does it well, crafts his magic carefully, the results have been well worth the work.

Muttering, eyes glowing vibrant green, Alastor scoops a teaspoon of smoked herbs from a clay pot hidden in the top drawer of his dresser, pours it into the pouch, and returns the little pot to his hiding place, quick as a hiccup.

He drops in the bayou spoils, one by one. He caresses them with intention, imbuing them with their purpose. Then, he flips a silver coin in the air and lets it fall among nature. From the living world, it should be especially effective. If not, Alastor has just wasted a small fortune. He follows this with one of his own blood stained claw from his little moment back at the cottage, then - 

Shadow holds out a wispy finger.

Alastor raises his brow.

Shadow wags the finger with some force.

Sighing, nodding in agreement with the logic of it, Alastor embeds the silver scissors - practically ensuring that their purity will be compromised after this little craft project - and snips off a wispy nub, scooping it into the pouch mid-air. 

He breathes into the bag, forcing vulnerability into the air, his demands for the talismans, the service he expects, his intentions and hopes for them. Next, he twists, and twists, so tight the fabric pinches the pads of his fingers. To feed the bag, he holds it between the bare skin of his wrists, one anointed with oil, the other with moonshine whiskey. 

With the silver needle and thread, he seals the packed bundle with a bit of buckskin leather, tying silver “x”s along the tan string.

All to do now is to hide it. 

There aren’t many good places to keep such an obvious object on an infant, as it turns out. Not that any of the idiots currently occupying the premises would recognize a charm bag if it were to hit them in the eye, but that wasn’t really the point, was it?

Green demonic power shivers against the warm protection spell soaked in the gris-gris. The bag melts under the power, the microscopic components separating and reorganizing in a wet flow of red, purple, and gold. The mass circles overhead and follows Alastor to the bassinet.

Gathering up the pooling liquid in his cupped hands, Alastor shoves a bit more intention into it before molding a tiny bracelet of rough red cloth, golden thread shining throughout, outlined in black lace, and pinned together with a button of silver, inlaid with polished bone. He slips it onto her ankle.

Hidden in plain sight. Voodoo is a magic of intention, and the spirits can be cunning, tricksome, and crafty. Alastor hopes the spirits take his bit of wordplay with good humor. This charm toes the line between indulgence and respect. If the spirits are willing, if they accept the plea at face value, if they can feel his desperation, they may be able to step in if Alastor cannot. 

He examines his work.

He can only hope it is enough.

But he knows in his heavy heart that it is far from it.

---

Dinner is mandatory attendance.

Otherwise, given the amount of very personal revelations regarding his sole sexual experience, Alastor would have elected to hunt in his room, stretch his aching eldritch limbs, and begin the work of updating the hotel's wards with his own room.

Here he is instead.

Alastor takes his seat at Charlie’s right, Vaggie takes her left and the remainder fill in with some hesitance. Why, Alastor almost suggests a game of musical chairs to put a bit of umpf! in their step. Charlie plays mother - scooping out clouds of mashed potatoes and portioning out slices of thinly sliced, bread-crusted meat with a warm red center - and chatters about that afternoon’s cooking class and how lucky it is one of their new sinner’s is a Michelin Star chef.

“Pride and gluttony identified as our little sinner chef’s choice?” Alastor ventures, accepting his plate. 

“We don’t stereotype sinners, Alastor.” Vaggie glares, though Alastor thinks he sees the side of her mouth twitch.

“Nah,” Cherri - and is she a resident now or simply another fixture like the damn key cat or the flying dragon pony? - says through a mouthful of potato. “A chef? Wrath and greed. Had a girlfriend date a chef once. Thin motherfucker with a temper and a meth habit. He would practice his tenderizing skills at home, if you catch my drift.”

“Okay, we do not know Sal’s background. He’s new and he was so nice to cook the welcome home dinner for Alastor!” Charlie says, intentionally ignorant as ever to the damning misdeeds of her pet projects.

Alastor bites into a piece of meat.

Venison.

Acceptable.

“I would have-” Charlies continues.

“No!” A chorus of her closest friends harmonize down the table.

“I mean, you were so busy today. Babe. Sweetie.” Vaggie tries valiently. 

“Anyway, it was a big day and I’m really happy you are back, Alastor. We all are.” Charlie pauses, and stares hard at the remaining attendees.

“Sure.” “Thrilled.” “YEAH!” “Oh boy. Woo.” 

Oh, how the love warms the cockles of his heart.

“It’s good to be back! My, how much I have missed those long, miserable faces of the hopeful and hopeless sniffling at the front desk, crying for more face tissues! And the many, many, many reports of their failures!” Alastor sighs dramatically, and the sound crackles on the radio waves, “How I do miss the tears of fear that all hope is lost!” 

He lets out his trademark laugh™, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye on the last pitch.

“The vulnerability is proof it’s working, asshole.” Vaggie stabs at her venison with her knife. Given the pieces have already been thinly sliced, the action is more cathartic than practical.

“I fully support the effort to soften the poor sinner’s skin, to make them vulnerable, to show them how to trust again. How very…optimistic. And what have we if not optimism!”

“I gotta spear I can sh-”

“Okay!” Charlie interrupts with a forced giggle. “While on the hotel, how about we talk about Alastor’s new role?”

Alastor glowers, and the lights dim to follow suit, “I will be the hotelier, the facilities manager.”

“Yes! Yes, I meant more…your part at the hotel. You know…what you do here.”

“My job description, Princess?” He lets the lights return to their usual luminosity.

“Yes! We just need to narrow it down to what we really need. Keep your plate to a minimum.” 

“Very well.” Alastor takes a long, deliberate drink of water. “To begin, what could not be accomplished in my absence?” 

“Weeeelll.”

Not a promising start.

Alastor summons a notepad and gold plated pen between his glass of water and the butter dish.

The list is long.

Comprehensive, one might say.

One does say.

“So, my job description is to consist of all my prior duties and responsibilities.” 

“No?”

Alastor rips off the six pages of notes and slides the stack so it bumps against Charlie’s hand. She chews as she reviews. A little circle of food jiggles vivace in her cheek, steadily bumping along until page 3, when the tempo slows to adagio, and then stops altogether by page 5. Her throat works affrettando to swallow that mouthful, and then a long drink of water.

“I’m doing it again.” She realizes sadly.

“Babe.” Her paramour croons.

“Helping some at the expense of others. Using my friends. Taking more than I’m given. Treating…Acting just like… royalty does.” Charlie continues. Predictably, her large eyes are shining with tears and she sniffles against her napkin.

“You are not your father, Charlie.” Vaggie insists, her tone leaving no room for argument, “or your mother. You didn’t leave when your people needed you.” Her voice softens so that Alastor, directly across from her at the table, barely hears it. “When your family needed you. When I needed you.”

Charlie’s smile wobbles, and a tear falls down her cheek, and it is all shaping up to be quite the Hallmark card moment.

"You are a remarkable young lady," Alastor latches onto that line of conversation. There is no shame is taking a shot lined up by another player. "Tell me what our objectives are, and we can assign duties across our robust staff accordingly."

"That's actually a good idea." Vaggie at last puts her smooshed venison piece out its misery and into her mouth.

"I do have them occasionally." Alastor says drily.

Charlie sighs. "We have to protect those who live here, first of all. That's been clear since you left, Al. Turns out having a big scary radio demon on site was a pretty good deterrent. But we also have to address our guest's right now problems and then start on long term goals. It does no good to have the Princess of Hell talk about redemption if you are being stalked by an eleven foot tall Hellhound!"

Alastor opens his mouth to ask that question but -

"Don't ask." All voices chorus in unison.

Up until that point, the child had been content to continue her (long) nap in the bassinet. It took really very little effort on his part to float it down the stairs behind him. The staff and curious sinners that followed him to the front desk did take great effort on his part to hold back his urge to disembowel and/or dismember and/or destroy his impromptu parade. At the end of the line, Alastor had snapped his head 180 degrees to face the sinner conga line, and one - the damn Badger Demon - laughed about how her mom had eyes on the back of her head too.

It was so startling, so humanizing, that Alastor had laughed - a real laugh, soft and breathy - too.

And there went his opportunity for a little mayhem, so, really, dinner was a lost cause no matter how finely cooked the venison or velvety the potatoes. 

(Maybe the chef demon wished to make a deal)

When the child finally found her voice - not even having the grace to wail her displeasure at the world - and whimpered in her bassinet, the focus was all on her, and, naturally, that meant on him.

"You should eat." Charlie said. "I can-"

"Ehhem!" Angel, Cherri, and Vaggie clear their throats pointedly.

Charlie blushes blood red and clears her own throat in embarrassment.

"Alastor?" She folds her hands in front of her on the table. "May I hold the baby? Just while you eat?"

Warning bells sound off in his head. But he cannot tell if they are alerting him to a present threat or are simply an echo of dangers past. This is Charlie Morningstar, Princess of Hell, but also the demon who stepped between him and the King. She had chosen Alastor's side.

"If she will allow it, then you may. You will need to forgive any rudeness on her part. She slept through afternoon tea and it's her suppertime soon as well." 

Charlie had jumped up from her chair - banging her knee against the underside of the table and nearly spilling Alastor's water glass - and gathered up his child - Alastor's child - in a confident, natural cradle of her arms. The entire table is spellbound by the picture. To Alastor, at least, the differences are more striking than the resemblance. The baby is all cool blue tones, with a healthy peach glow to her, and is soft as newborn fawn's fur. Charlie, Princess of Hell, is red fire, unearthly pale, a porcelain doll appearing human-enough for an uncanny valley phenomena.

Princess of Hell, Charlie, leans down her head and kisses the child's forehead. They share another look of intense interest before Charlie closes her eyes and holds onto the girl tighter.

"I could feed her too, if you would like?" Charlie offers, whispering despite the child being wide awake. "We still have bottles here, and we have a fresh carton of goat milk. Organic this time."

Alastor shifts in his seat. "No, thank you, my dear. I prefer to handle it." 

"I'd leave him to it, Charles. Keep outta the splash zone!" Angel disengages from his side conversation with Cherri and Husk long enough to get his two-cents in. "'member the cryin' and the smell." 

He shudders.

A bit of an exaggeration, if one asks Alastor, the demon actually receiving the vomit on his clothing. The smell was nothing but a bit of sour milk. Had no one in this hotel gone outside to smell the literal sulphur and brimstone in the air?

"The laundry." Niffty says, faint and small.

Alastor heads that breakdown off.

"No, my darling, no worries! Why, this little lady is a proper dinner guest these days! Hardly any vomiting outside of over-indulgence - but, then, aren't we all victims of Beezlebub on occasion?" 

"Sure. Just let us know how much goat milk we need to buy for the week and I'll add it to the order." Vaggie starts stacking her dinnerware. Efficient, likely from the angel army, her side mission in turning a perfectly good slice of venison into pudding had not added much time to her usual swift completion of the evening's meal. 

Alastor holds his expression still as a corpse. He takes another bite of venison steak, swallows it whole. Takes a drink of water. Another bite. No one is talking. Charlie coos at the child. Alastor feels the roar of static between his ears. He has no reason to feel ashamed! It was as natural as any of this living fever dream.  He might as well dress in drag and do the hula for how bizarre his life has become.

"She doesn't drink goat milk." He says quietly, nearly drowned out by his own radio static.

Charlie pets through the child's gold and red curls, narrowly missing the bow but for Alastor's gentle push of static to divert her course down the child's cheek. He can tell from the not-so-subtle rooting reflex that her patience with the Princess's adoration is limited.

"I..." He clears his throat. "I am responsible for her feedings."

"Yeah but -"

"Oh!" Angel catches on first. Of course he does. 

The domino effect of crashing realization would be comical if Alastor did not feel so much shame. He shouldn't. As far as he can tell, nursing is the only way to get food into the child without a guarantee of seeing it within the hour. And even if he could...

"We can convert the backroom into a mother's room!" Charlie squeals, jumping a little in her seat. The child visibility startles in her arms, little limbs flying out, her head jerking back, "I read about it in the books! A room that is quiet, and comfortable, and private for the baby to eat! Vaggie - "

"On it, sweetie." 

"Hold the phone  - Alastor gets his own room on da first floor?"

"He's literally going need to feed and take care the baby. And we've established we are too stupid to handle most managing tasks, so we need him down here. No, shut up, Alastor. I literally will punch you if you speak."

"I could do that. Ya kno, take care in there."

"I refuse to figure that out. Just know you are disgusting." Vaggie collects a few more plates - Niffty's and Husker's - and heads to the kitchen.

"Okay, Smiles. Now she's gone, question 'bout yer boobs..."

"You might reconsider whether it's worth the answer." 

Angel makes a show of thinking it over. "Nah, it wasn't even finished. Something something strawberry milk was all I got."

"I assure you-!"

The child's cries - really, becoming a bit predictable there, darling - interrupt further discussion. Alastor intends to give her an additional 1/2 hour's time on his chest napping than he usually endures for her good behavior.

"I'm afraid duty calls!" Alastor retrieves his child with an easy swipe under her tiny body and another hand cradling the back of her head. He fits her in her usual travel-sans-sling position high on his chest, her head set in the deep dip of his collarbone, clear even through the layers of his clothes, and forgets his audience for a moment.

He nuzzles his nose into her hair and breathes in the mix of her scent and his magic.

"Fuck. Now that's real cute! Here, lemme -"

Pop!

Crack!

Szzzzzzzzzle.

"Hot hot hot! Ack! My phone! You set my fucking phone on fire!"

beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep

Alastor's shadow smiles a garish green as he slips away in the darkness.

---

The tear-jerking relief Alastor experiences from the child feeding after a whole afternoon of pent up lactation is, pardon his French, heavenly. He leans back in his armchair and gently rubs the child’s back as she works her magic on his frazzled nerves. It had been a long day, and the game had hinged on so many reactions that Alastor cannot believe he won. 

This round at least.

He is switching her to the other side of his chest when Charlie bursts into the room with all the shine and sparkle her personality can manifest. As well as an arm load of blankets and pillows. Truly, if only Lucifer showed a smidgen of attention to her education, what wondrous horror she could master! Already she has the ability to ruin a perfectly good evening feed in moments.

“Sorry! Sorry! Not looking, not looking!”

Alastor sighs.

“No harm done, Charlie. It is nothing lewd or lascivious. Contrary to a certain resident so-called ‘sexpert’s’ conclusion, I do not have the engorged knockers of a catalogue bim. More flapper inspired, I think.”

Charlie cracks an eye open.

“Huh. Yeah, that’s not bad at all. I can’t even see your chest with your coat and, ya know, baby in the way.”  She tosses the stack of fresh laundry onto his bed and stands by his chair, smiling down at them. “Wonder why it’s such a big deal to humans?”

Alastor hums some sound of agreement.

Charlie clears her throat.

Here we go.

“I actually came here to say I’m sorry.” She says, tucking a stray lock of hair from her face, and sitting on the arm of his chair. It is unlikely that her light frame will cause any real damage, but it is rude to treat another’s furniture with such casual abuse. “For the way my dad behaved. He shouldn’t have, you know, chained you up or fought you, or said all those things. No matter what he thought. It was real shitty to tell you to give her to Heaven after everything we went through... If what happened, um… happened, then he should have…he should know … by now, you know, that he should…” She trails off with a sad sigh.

Oh, so they are having this conversation. A bit ahead of schedule but his plans are light this evening.

“Step up? Charlie, my dear, if the King failed to raise the Princess of Hell, daughter of his beloved queen, a child he presumably wanted, why should you think he would do so for my daughter? A bastard born of a mistake.” He tastes the bitterness of that word on his lips. 

All good manipulation comes with a dash of truth. 

Alastor heaps in a generous cupful of truth.

Then tips in the whole bag.

“No, Charlie. I expected nothing of Lucifer. He isn’t like you and me. Plagued with human foibles, limited. Why, Lucifer is a celestial being with unknown depths of power and not a speck of humanity in that ridiculous little frame. He may be your father, my dear, but I fear you know little of his true character. None of us do. I certainly didn’t.”

He lets that hang there, a lit match in a dry field, spreading faster and faster, until all the ground is ash and smoke. Alastor closes his eyes and remembers a warm evening, golden dragonflies, tough fingers, and lips that taste of apple and whiskey.

“I’m so sorry, Al. Everyone keeps telling you what to do. I didn’t want to hide her or take her away from you, before. I really just wanted to help.”

“Fooled me there, Princess!” But he keeps it light with a crooked smile and a wink.

The child pulls off and rubs her nose violently against his pectoral muscle. He shifts her to his shoulder for a firm back massage, eliciting a bumpy trio of burps, and a soft, throaty sigh. After he slides her into the cradle of his arm, he buttons up his shirt with a wave of green power. Shame be damned, but he is a gentleman! Another wave of green and one of Rosie’s knit black and pink heart receiving blankets covers the child and his lap.

Charlie reaches over to tuck an edge of the blanket into the crease between Alastor’s arm and the child’s chest. 

“You are good at this. Being a parent.”

“My dear, you sound surprised! I am good at very nearly everything!”

She slaps the arm not holding the child, and, to his dismay, then holds her hand there. “Oh you! But you shouldn’t have to do this alone, Al. Especially if Heaven is involved. So…” she grins at him and winks, “let’s make a Deal.”

What?

“What?”

Charlie laughs. “Yeah, crazy, right? But I talked it over with Vaggie this afternoon. We think it’s a good way to keep my dad from pulling anything. I know. Vaggie thinks I should make a Deal with you. It was her idea, actually. I checked the temp, Hell is toasty warm with a 100% chance of continuing to be so. Heh. See, if I promise you that I will protect her, to fight anyone who would harm her, my dad will think twice before trying…whatever. He doesn’t want me hurt. He won’t hurt me. So he will leave her alone.”

She holds out her right hand, her left keeping its pressure on his arm.

Alastor shakes his head. 

He simply intended for her to condemn her father publicly, to stir Lucifer’s legendary temper and/or awaken Hell from its complacent slumber. Start a revolution, if they must.

To dethrone Lucifer.  

Not put the Princess of Hell - crucial to the objective - in the firing range

Is she stupider than he thought? It seems impossible she could be. But she is making a damn good show of it.

The bloody shreds of his conscience drip with just enough life to forewarn an ignorant child.

“Charlotte. Charlie. It is not just your father. This is Heaven and Hell. This is the fate of your hotel, your sinners. If you make such a deal, it would compel you to strike first, ask questions later. It would consume your better judgement. Charlie -”

“I know, Alastor. I know what it means to pledge my power in service to another. Might as well sell my soul, right? I’ve been in Hell much longer than you.” A bit of her demonic nature flashes across her face, her eyes glow bloody crimson, her smile sharpens, the tips of her horn pierce through alabaster skin. “I pledge myself to her.”

Charlie reaches down to adjust the blanket, again. Then she grabs Alastor’s hand and squeezes.

“I’ll protect her, Al. If the time comes, I don’t want to hesitate. A Deal would compel me; you taught me that. There would be no indecision. No hesitation. No mercy. Alastor, she’s my sister. I have to protect her.”

She releases her grip on his hand, stretches her fingers as if she is about to go into battle right at that moment, and extends her offer once more.

Alastor holds up a finger, silently asking for a moment. He must choose the words carefully. Damn. He should have foreseen this, this sacrificial (suicidal) generosity of Charlie’s. Alastor may be fond of the kindly, stupid princess but he must protect his child.

Only a fool would turn this offer down.

Lucifer is going to tear him apart, wait until he pulls himself together, and then do it again. And again. And again. Until the end of his eternity. 

---

The child sleeps poorly at the hotel.

She alternates between sobbing and staring blankly at Alastor as he paces in his room. It is not the same as the cottage. There are too many sounds from the bayou. The smell is too thick. The air too heavy. He can hear footsteps of passing residents outside his door, and he guesses that news has gotten round to the remaining souls at the hotel that he has returned. 

They all have the good sense to stay outside.

Eventually, he wraps the child on his chest and heads down to the Front Desk just after the witching hour, relieving a snoozing Vaggie from her post. Sorting out the chaos fills the quiet morning hours. How two reasonably capable women managed to mangle his check-in procedures, lose an entire quarter’s inventory logs, and wipe their checking account clean in a month, he would rather not know.

“I am surrounded by idiots.” He mutters, trying to decipher a particularly creative entry that used both wingdings and, surely, cuneiform. He flashes a smile downwards. “Present company excluded, of course. I’m sure you will disappoint me plenty, given you share genetic material with one said idiot, but I do try not to prejudge. You’ve been fine company thus far. But I will certainly let you know when you do disappoint.”

The residents start arriving around six am. A swarm of buzzing bees. They stare. Then remember they are at a - mostly - functional establishment and make the odd request to save face (and limb). None possess the bravery - or stupidity, perhaps - to ask about the baby to his face. A Wolverine Demon tells Alastor she is glad he is back, so the hotel can work again.

Another Fish-y Demon gurgles that it has been a real shitshow since Alastor left. 

“Well, one can’t find good help anywhere anymore!” The Hotelier trills. “Unless one is the Princess of Hell, born with all that privilege and yet here she is - ha!” 

The slimy, scaly demon just gurgles some more and Alastor makes a guess that he wants more towels. He leaves, anyway.

Around eight, he puts the ‘Please Ring Bell for Service!’ sign out and retreats to the staff kitchen for another round of coffee - OH DEER! mug at the ready.

He is hardly surprised that the brain trust of the Princess of Hell is there already. Writing on large sheets of paper with literal coloring crayons. Like children.

“And what has teacher assigned for the class today?” He asks. 

Charlie is at his side in an instant, buzzing like the sinners in her busy hive that morning, eyes locked on the half-dozing infant. She pours his coffee, without his asking, a presumption he forgives her for. The question practically drips from her lips, and her teeth dig into her bottom lip as she bites it back.

Well, his back hurts so he can accommodate her today.

“Would you like to hold the child, my dear?” 

Her delighted squeal wakes the child - who seems already to recognize she is among the idiots she must tolerate and does little more than snort her displeasure - and very likely every sleeping hellhound in the Seven Rings.

Alastor slumps into a chair and immediately regrets making eye contact with Angel Dust.

“Ya gotta pick a name. It’s basic moms-ing 101.” The Porn Star insists. “She can’t be the child.”  He says that with an extra bit of haute in his voice, a poor mimicry of Alastor's cultivated class. With two hands on either side, Angel holds up two large pieces of paper, and Alastor sees the class project was, in fact, an intrusion into his affairs. 

How shocking.

Not.

“Absolutely not.”

The Cyclops - Alastor is going to mark her down as a resident because, honestly, she is always here - smirks. “We’ll pick for you.”

“And they’ll pick your body out of the Pentagram Molten River! We will all win!"

He pushes a winning ding ding ding! into the soundwaves and then adds in a dong dong dong of a requiem bell

Vaggie mimes stabbing Alastor with her forkful of eggs. With a bit too much enthusiasm.

“Okay, so I got, EHEM.” Angel stands and turns the papers towards himself, as if presenting a thesis before a board. “Nessie.”

“No.”

“Selkie.”

“Negative.”

“Nixie.” 

“Try again.”

“Yowie.”

“Hey,” Vaggie interrupts, “are these names all based on cryptids?”

Angel and Cherri freeze.

Then Angel’s lower-left arm hands a sheet to his friend, who crumples it in a ball and throws it across the room.

It explodes mid-air.

“Real subtle, sugar.” Angel says, twisting a finger in his ear. “Okay, how about Wendy?”

Vaggie rolls her eye. “I also know what a wendigo is, shithead.”

“But it’s perfect for whatever Al has going on over there!”

“Angel!”

“Also a good suggestion!”

“I’d sooner slit my throat.” Alastor says, radio overlay thick and ominous, over the rim of his cup. This weak coffee certainly was not worth this.

“Ohhhh, keep talking dirty to me, mamacita!” 

“I have one!” Niffty shouts, raising her hand frantically. 

“Yes, Niffty?” Charlie says hesitantly.

“Alastor! It is such a good name!” She stares at her boss in adoration. “Or Roach Princess!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Alastor spots Husker adding some liquid patience from a flask into his coffee.

“Both good suggestions but I will pass for now.” Alastor pats the little psycho’s head.

Charlie rocks on the balls of her feet. The child’s eyes have drifted shut again, either exhausted from an all nighter watching Alastor sort through a filing nightmare, or in self-preservation. Humming, and then smiling brightly, Charlie decides to add to the dangerous levels of nonsense in the room.

“What about Fawn?” 

Of course. Baby deer. Fawn. But Alastor is a Deer Demon, not a deer. There is a time to be prideful, and Alastor chooses now. 

“Or Hope? Or Joy? Or -”

“My dear, certainly we can do better than monosyllabic nouns, yes?”

“How about-”

Whatever she was going to suggest next is drowned out by a symphony of beeps and buzzes and a loud, tinny sexual sigh.

All present - Alastor excluded - pull out their cellular devices.

The looks of dawning horror cannot possibly bode well for today’s agenda.

Charlie sits down like her strings have been cut and clutches the child tighter to her chest, covering her mouth with her free hand.

“What is it?” He has to ask after a length of radio silence.

Angel finds his voice first, too soft and low, “Voxstagram just, eh, dropped a helluva birth announcement for the kid.”

He what.

“He what.” Alastor had been under no delusions he could hide her existence. Hell didn’t work like that. No one could hide, in shadows, or hotels, or in the safety of their own minds.

“It’s not a fucking birth announcement!” Vaggie shouts and reaches behind her chair to grab her spear. “It’s a hit. It’s a fucking hit!”

Alastor takes another drink of coffee. He will need it, if he has to deal with Vox today.

“Oh, many demons have tried for many years to take me out. Vox’s little stunt-”

“Alastor?” Charlie interrupts. She grips his shoulder and her sharp claws dig into his coat. The faintest outline of green glows from behind her inverted eyes. Vaggie comes over to stand behind them and holds her cellular device out for Alastor to read.

“The hit. Alastor. The hit isn’t on you.”

Chapter 15

Alastor stares at the screen of the cellular device, his face frozen in a jagged grin. Vox, as smarmy as ever, sits at a newsdesk. The box in the right hand corner proclaims BREAKING NEWS! 

“Hello there, as CEO of VoxTech Enterprises, I feel it is my duty to not only offer Voxtech’s top of the line security devices, including cameras, lazers, and - coming soon! - robotic hellhound watch dogs, - Someone get on that - *Ehm* but also give you breaking news! It has come to this Overlord’s attention that a sinner actually spawned a brat last month. A bouncing baby girl. Awwww! First off, congratulations to the proud mommy: Alastor, the Radio Demon.”

The box in the corner flips on a video of Alastor getting out of Rosie’s packard. It glitches, and the screen resolutely refuses to completely focus but it’s damningly clear enough. On screen, he can be seen carefully arranging his child in the wrap around his chest. Then, in a rare three second span of clarity, and to his private horror, he drops a kiss on her blonde curls and stares down at her with a smile filled with so much...he doesn’t recall doing that. 

It’s too obvious, this weakness, and Alastor’s stomach drops.

There it is, broadcast to all of Hell in unstable, distorted but oh so recognizable 2-D. Alastor playing the ‘ proud mommy.’

He closes his eyes but Vox’s annoying voice keeps on going.

“You heard it here first, folks! Hahaha, what a freak, right? How much of a cock slut do you have to be to get knocked up in Hell? Fucking weirdo! Hahahahaa! *Ehem* We are looking into this developing story. But first…an offer. Voxtech labs is consistently on the cutting edge of innovations in healthcare. Would you too like to pass on your demonic genes? Have a true family in Hell? So, in the interest of science: the sinner who delivers Alastor’s brat to me at V Tower will win an afterlife's supply of all the latest VoxTech products, a fifty year rent-free lease in a Voxtech penthouse, and the release of one soul of your choosing, any soul owned by any of the Vees . All it costs is one hellspawn brat. Dead or Alive. Debt-free, living in luxury, your soul . Ha, you can have your Heaven right here in Hell.”

Alastor remains frozen. He is dimly aware of movement around him. Static builds up in his chest, which is odd. It usually crowds in his skull. It presses against his heart and causes electricity to spider through his body. It only further paralyzes him. He flicks his gaze to Charlie. She is clutching the child tight to her chest, covering the small child as best as she can with her arms. The infant lets out a disgruntled cry and attempts to turn out of the hold. The green glow in Charlie’s eyes has overwhelmed the red. The terms of the contract are very nearly enacted.

“Charlie.” Alastor’s static crackles, hardly a voice at all. “Hide.”

“ I promised.” Her demonic form splits her features.

“Yes.” He agrees calmly. The timbre of his voice returns slowly as he pushes through the panic. “She needs to be hidden and guarded. Upstairs now, to my room, bar the door. Vaggie?”

The ex-exorcist puts an arm around her girlfriend’s shoulders and nods. Promise unspoken.

It’s only sinners. Alastor reminds himself. Only weak, powerless sinners.

Angel steps around the table, likely to pledge his own metal to the fight, and stops at Alastor’s outstretched microphone. The curved tip - sharper than one may think - catches the light.

“Smiles?” Angel asks, confused.

Alastor jabs at him, causing the demon to jump back.

“I’m not taking chances here, old boy! You understand.” Alastor explains, smile tight, and, walking forward, herds Angel and Cherri into the corner of the kitchen. 

“Ya can’t think…no, no! After…” His look of understanding is replaced by angry hurt. “Ya know what, Al? Fuck you!”

Protect.

“They own your soul, Angel.” Alastor says quietly. And if that message had not been, in at least some way, directed to Angel personally, Alastor would eat his own staff.

Protect.

“I ain’t a risk!” Angel shouts, tears thick in his voice.

Protect.

“No chances.”

They all jump at the sound of Niffty’s shriek in the lobby: “Alastor! Alastor!”

Husker - who had been having quite the internal struggle over avenging Angel’s honor or keeping his soul intact - books it out the kitchen door.

Alastor reaches an arm behind him to curl Charlie and his child into his side, keeping his staff pointed at the two sinners in the corner. Vaggie runs ahead, spear at the ready, as Alastor directs Charlie instead to the back hallway.

“Bayou!” He hisses in her ear and practically leaps through the shadows to the front of the lobby. 

Niffty and Husker, holding a feather duster and broken liquor bottles, respectively, were in a standoff with several of the newer arrivals. A Shark Demon - never can trust those ones - bares his teeth as he lunges for Alastor, screaming something about handing it over.

A tentacle grabs him round the middle.

A second grabs his legs. 

They tear him in two.

Guts, blood, and, interestingly, water paint the polished floor.

Niffty winces at the sight. 

A humanoid plant demon tries her hand next. A long vine wraps around Husker’s wrist and she pulls back. But the old gambler is faster, and stronger, and a sharp playing card chops it to bits, chlorophyll floating on the air like dust. Several more vines join the rough chopped crudités. Red blood covers them like spilled dipping sauce. 

Green and red smear across the surface of the bar. 

The new chef demon tries next. As Alastor rips him to shreds, he sees a second foe barrelling towards him.  He tosses Niffty into the air so she lands on the back of the extraordinarily tall demon that Alastor doesn’t try to place and, clever little darling she is, she embeds her claws in his neck before shoving her duster down his throat.

Husker thrusts his broken bottle into a Melting Demon’s face and blood threads into constant, watery flow of his face. Niffty jumps down to twirl her feather duster in the muck. The Sinner’s features - never stable - curl up the wand, swirling red and off-white like a peppermint. 

The trio turn to face a line of Sinners at the front doors, more than a dozen of their longest residents, two lines thick. Alastor might have ripped through them in one long swipe of a shadow tendril but pauses.

The door bulges in and starts to splinter.

The line of Sinners presses back and the door snaps straight once more.

“They’re not fighting us.” Husk says, sounding incredulous himself.

“Sir! A little help!” The Badger Demon screeches.

Alastor waves his staff and thick boards criss-cross the entrance, covered in thick glowing green chains. Of course, Sinners are nothing if not creative and the next move is rather obvious. The windows lining the entrance shatter, grabby hands, paws, fins, and the like reach in and Hell’s sunlight is instantly blocked by the bodies of those would-be invaders. 

The residents push the lobby couches against the tide. Several steps back and start throwing whatever is in reach - lamp, copies of The Hellish Times, an old fashioned rotary phone - while others jab fireplace pokers and baseball bats at the wriggling, squiggling mass of arms and legs pushing around the furniture. 

“Boss.” Husker growls, deadpanning a look at Alastor.

Alastor grins.

“But aren’t they doing such a good job!”

“Boss.”

“Oh, very well.”

He waves his staff and the various appendages breaking through the windows bubble up with blisters, oozing pus and blood, and explode in a delightfully noxious spray of thick, viscous liquid. The residents, weapons still held at the ready or in mid swing, blink comically before lowering their arms.

“My thanks for your assistance.” Alastor folds his arms behind his back and bows at the hips, “But I shall take it from here. You shall all be given a gold star on your redemption charts! Good job!”

“Need a second?” Husker offers, growling at the video of Vox playing on a loop on several phones dropped on the lobby floor.

Alastor adjusts the cuffs of his coat and straightens his coat. “No, no. You stay and manage the rabble here, my good man. This is the perfect opportunity to stretch my legs. Niffty, be a dear and stab any sinner trying to break into my room, hmm? There’s a good minion.” He hands her a dagger - non-angelic, her judgment cannot be trusted so completely - and she scurries up the stairs, giggling maniacally.

The Radio Demon has little trouble dispersing the sinners creeping up the hill towards the Hazbin Hotel like a horde of ants. Breakfast had been so rudely interrupted, afterall. To be fair, he either launches the majority of them heavensward, disembowels them, or tears them to pieces, but several end up as his meal.

Once that is done, his every step leaves a bloody hoofprint on the cracked sidewalks of Pentagram City. Ichor drips down his front in a Rorschach stain.

Alastor lets it be. 

V Tower is just as ugly as ever, a monument to overcompensation as Alastor had even seen, and all but abandoned when he arrives. Presumably, its employees were among those making an attempt on the Hotel or in hiding from the show bound to go down upstairs. 

Well, allow me to let myself in then.

He passes several cameras and grins broadly into their lenses. The spark of busting electricity is visible in the air. The rancid smell of burnt plastic is too. Alastor wrinkles his nose and thinks.

If I were a charlatan where would I hide?

Among his tricks, of course.

Alastor finds him in the media room, remembering the many screens and catwalk entrance vaguely from their little duet last year. Vox sits like a king, the wall of picture boxes acting as his cloth of estate, his hands steepled near the screen that makes up his stupid smiling face.

“Is it a holiday?” Alastor asks blithely, silhouetted in the doorway. “Or have all your busy buzzy worker bees leave the hive?”

Vox laughs. Idiot that he is. “They are out picking up a Voxstacart order.” He drawls.

Alastor stares at him.

“You know,” Picture Box says, “if you weren’t so fucking old-fashioned, you would have gotten that.” 

“Oh, I’ll get mine.” Alastor promises.

Vox grins wider, and his eyes flicker between hypnotism and mania. Alastor simply sighs. The amount of power Vox would have to acquire to have any control over Alastor is laughably high. They are both Overlords, but equal in that title alone. The scales for power have always tipped in Alastor’s favor.

“A baby, Alastor?” Vox asks, appearing genuinely curious. “That’s what got you out of the game this time? A fucking kid? How-?”

Alastor interrupts with a wave of his hand, “Yes, yes, your little science venture. You have one chance to call this nonsense off. I advise you to take it.” He offers.

Mercy, free advice, criminal trespass with no property damage.

Perhaps motherhood is making the Radio Demon soft.

“Make me.” Vox baits. 

Alastor walks down the catwalk, swaying his hips intentionally, eyes locked on the screen at the end. The screen flickers and Vox’s smile shrivels into a little o. It is difficult for Alastor to keep his shadows at bay, nearly impossible to stamp down the green glow that shivers at his skin. But he manages it as he leans over Vox.

“You wanted me here, Picture Box. You have me.”

“I-I-I w-wa-wanted the kid-d-d.” Vox glitches.

Alastor tuts, “Now, what would a businessman like you do with a child? Such a detriment to climbing the ol’ career ladder. Come now, old pal, you wanted to talk to me.” He lays a land on Vox’s shoulder and slides it down over his heart. He can feel electrical pulses thrumming hot beneath his suit coat. “So talk.”

Mechanical tentacles wrap around his ankles and up his legs before power cords arc through the air to wrap his arms. They electrocute him. Alastor grits his teeth against the sudden overdose of electricity in his veins. 

Really, it’s Alastor’s own fault. Too long sitting at the Front Desk and playing house. He’s gotten out of practice.

It’s proof of fortune’s favor that the first idiot he comes up against is Vox.

Alastor grabs the pulsating electricity and converts it into pure static energy. 

SCZHHHHHHHHHHHHH

The shock he sends goes directly into Vox’s power supply board, overwhelming him and pushing him offline. But only temporarily. Alastor’s bonds break and he can see the screen already booting up as he snaps through the cords.

Blue and white streaks of lightning coarse from the wall of picture boxes towards him.

Alastor slashes his staff through the air. Shadows absorb the light and only the faintest hint of lightning can be seen in their depths as they return to Alastor. 

Vox growls and goes for a more basic move. 

A punch.

Gotta love the classics!

Alastor neatly side steps it.

WHOOOSH!

And very nearly slips off the thin walkway, into the electric shark infested waters below. He windmills his arms in a vain attempt to regain balance. Flying is not among his many powers, though his tentacles can give off the impression of hovering. The walkway is too slippery, however, for his equally slippery tentacles to land on and the angle with dry land becomes more and more obtuse as he -

Vox grabs the front of his shirt to pull him back. Which is, well, very gentlemanly of him but, alas, the motive is anything but. Mr. Picture Box holds Alastor out by the neck over the edge. Alastor's long legs kick as they search for purchase on ground that is not there. A boot skims the surface of the water. His hands claw at Vox’s death grip on his throat. Laughter echoes through the room as Vox sees victory within his grasp.

It’s quite embarrassing for all involved.

Alastor shoots a tentacle out to wrap around the walkway and pulls himself free of the other Overlord’s grip. He lands, one hand flat on the floor to steady him, before he sends out his own shot of electric static, coupled with a heavy dose of black ichor. The latter of that combination seeps into his ventilation slots and causes rather chaotic blue sparks.

(bzzzzzzpopzzzzsnapzzzzzpoppoppopzzzzz)

Vox’s screen glitches once more.

“You-you’ve al-alwa-ys be-en a f-f-f-ucking fool.” He stutters. 

“Call it off.” Alastor orders. “Call off your little minions and I don’t pull your plug.”

Vox laughs.

Alastor launches a tentacle right through his screen. 

CRASH

Glass tinkles on the hard floor below.

The screen goes black, but Vox’s laugh continues to ring around him.

"Hahahahahaha! I'm dual-monitor compatible! Great for multi-tasking!"

“Truly, your sense of humor needs alignment, dear fellow. Allow me. ” Alastor grins wickedly and reaches into the shattered box of Vox’s skull. 

Vox’s face pops onto one of the remaining screens on the wall. “You've got much bigger problems than me, bucko!” Vox cackles. “See, this is a sponsored challenge.”

Alastor pulls out some of the wires he finds within. Vox’s hands slash at his arms, and, really, it is quite unsatisfying that the screen above does not emit the pain he surely feels.

“So, this is what ‘under control’ looks like, huh?” Velvette says from the other side of the room. She stands, hands on hips, in front of the monstrosity that is Valentino. Both have matching smirks.

Vox’s face zips to another screen on the wall.

“He’s in our house, baby!” 

“He is,” Valentino drawls, puffing out a curling red wisp of smoke, “and getting your blood all over our nice clean floors.”

“Backup arrives, when, exactly? ‘Cause we ain’t it.” Velvette asks as she raises her phone and snaps a series of pictures of the scene. 

Pop! Pop! Pop!

“What the - arrgh!” Tap Tap Tap  “Okay. Fuckhead torched my cell. Vox - stop fucking around. Call your feathered friends or I kill him.”

On cue - there is no such thing as a coincidence in Hell - a golden portal zippers open in the middle of the walkway.

“YE-E-E-S!!” Vox shouts from yet another screen on the wall.

Lucifer steps through.

“NO-O-O-O!!” Vox’s body starts fighting in earnest to get away from Alastor’s, admittedly, slackened grasp. 

Unfortunately, sans face, his body has a poor sense of direction and he crashes into the electric shark infested waters. The finned monstrosities don’t miss this opportunity. Two drag him down into the depths, electric pulses creating flashing waves through the water.

The television screens go blank.

Valentino sighs, “It will take hours to scrape him together.”

Lucifer walks - not to Alastor, which had been his expectation - over to Velvette. 

“Who was it?” He asks, casual, calm.

Deadly.

She shrugs. “This was Vox’s deal. I warned him. I don’t fuck with angels.” She blows a bubble with her gum and gives her phone another fruitless tap. 

Lucifer turns to Valentino and holds out his hand, palm up. 

Valentino blinks at it. Attempts to shake it, to no success. Then finally looks down at his fellow Vee in confusion.

Velvette shrugs back, rolling her eyes at his fumbling.

“Your phone.” Lucifer says. Still calm.  Still deadly. 

The Overlord quickly deposits said phone into the King’s hand. Lucifer holds it up, as if in demonstration. 

“Here is how this is going to go. One of you will make a new video calling this bullshit challenge off. The other one is going to get me the names of whoever the TV guy talked to. Then - and this is the big one so pay attention - you three idiots will leave Alastor and the baby the FUCK ALONE.” The Devil orders.

Velvette waves the cloud of hellfire smoke away from her face. 

“No probs, old man. Give me a sec to find better lighting. Val here can answer about the flying fuckers. He was there. By your leave, your majesty .” Velvette is already tap-tap-tapping and they can hear a faint “Hey Bitches! Challenge is O-V-E-R…” as she departs.

The Devil turns to the Moth Demon.

Valentino gulps, audibly.

“Speak.” 

“I-I-I don’t-”

“I can erase you from existence. But that would be a kindness compared to what I have planned for you. So speak.”

Valentino, as enormous as he is, shrinks into himself as the King turns the brightness of the fire between his horns up. It seems to cause the Moth Demon pain and he lets out a pitchy moan.

“There was one. I don’t know his name. White suit. Blond. Cold fucker. He was very like you, Your Majesty. Oh, no, not like you. He was - oh, dios mío!”

“No, far from it.” Lucifer snorts, snuffing out his demonic form like a candle. “Alright, Alastor, let’s go.” 

Alastor - somehow having become spectator in what had been his storming of the tower - fumes silently as he follows the king out of the room, past Velvette’s ongoing livestream calling off the hit, down the elevator, and back onto the streets of Pentagram City before laying into the King.

“I had it under control!” He snaps out, static sharp.

“Oh, yeah?” Lucifer grins up at him.

“Hmm, you would have trouble recognizing it.” Alastor brushes an imaginary speck of dust off his sleeve. “In the future, I will thank you to stay out of my affairs. That includes my child. My rivalries. My hotel.”

“Hang on-”

Tentacles frame his being as he lets out a sliver of his power in his anger, eyes reduced to radio dials as his features exaggerate and sharpen. “You will not white knight this, Lucifer. We are not pawns in your feeble attempts to gain your daughter’s favor. She rejected you. Now, let me borrow an order from you: leave me and my child the FUCK ALONE.” 

Lucifer, arms crossed, looks nonplussed.

“You done?” He asks (calm, casual. Not deadly.) “I don’t know how much your deer brain took in back there, but your TV pal got bought out by Heaven. Specifically, one of my brothers. Archangels. Powerful, more powerful than you. Any affair that includes Heaven is one of mine.” 

He scratches the back of his neck. Alastor realizes he isn’t wearing his hat, nor his coat, and hasn’t been this whole time. The King left the house in his shirt sleeves. Alastor knows from months of living with the man that it usually took a few glasses of wine and a long night at the bar to get him in that state of undress.

Lucifer left in a hurry.

That can only mean -

“Were you worried, Sire?”

“Puh-leeze, I can handle a bit of angelic meddling.” The King insists. 

He starts walking down the street. Alastor follows. They detour around upturned sections of sidewalk. They step over mangled bodies of Alastor’s victims, some twitching as they pull themselves back together. Lucifer only once proves himself useful in removing a pile up of crumpled vehicles from existence. 

“A bit much, don’t you think?” Lucifer asks as they stare at a small pond of blood in the middle of the street. 

Alastor sniffs, “They needed reminding of what the Radio Demon can do.” 

Lucifer looks up at a sinner impaled on a graffitied street sign.

“Well, I’m glad you got an excuse to let off some steam.” 

Alastor would argue, and he does so love to argue, or play into the narrative of crazed, sadistic, bloodthirsty Radio Demon, but the tingling fear at the back of mind burrows its way back to the front.

It’s the first time, he realizes, that he has not been in the same location as the child since the birth. Even when Charlie or Rosie had taken her out of the room, Alastor was never more than a few walls or floors away. He has no way to know for certain if Charlie made it safe to his rooms, or if a rogue resident caught them in the hallway. 

He picks up the pace.

“She’s okay, Al.” Lucifer offers once he catches up. “Charlie texted me.”

Alastor stamps down some irritation at that. Damn Lucifer for the offering peace of mind that Alastor had not asked for! This whole affair has been little more than a nuisance today. Despite all the groundwork he had done to prevent Charlie from turning to her father in times of need, to keep Lucifer out of this, little miss princess had done exactly that. Alastor had it under control. Hell, it was just Vox being his usual, ridiculous self. Hardly a threat at all!

“Of course they are. Charlotte can be competent, when given the proper instructions and resources.”

"Charlie can hold her own. But, you know, it's okay if this whole deal freaked you out. I know how it-"

"Should I be expecting more interference from your side of the family, then?" Alastor interrupts. 

Lucifer has no right to offer comfort.

"Probably." He shrugs.

"Wonderful."

"Alastor-"

"And here we are!" Alastor gestures to the hotel roughly a hundred yards away. 

It looks awful. Windows are shattered and still filled with the twitching, whimpering bodies of would-be trespassers. The lawn is soaked in blood and covered in gore. The marquee hangs precariously on the side of the building, waiting for a light wind to blow it down. 

Lucifer stares at the destruction with a sad sort of understanding.

"They always ruin the good." He says softly. "You can give them so many chances. So much of yourself. Build them homes, offer them jobs, protection, normalcy in this damnable place...but they wreck it every time. She has a heart of gold. How long will it take to tarnish?"

"How long did it take for you, Sire?" Alastor asks, forgetting to add the sarcasm and mockery to the words.

Lucifer grins, his wicked one, his playful, teasing one. "That's my curse, don't you know? Forever young. Forever healthy. Forever hopeful. Forever and forever and forever the Devil. I can't tarnish or rot or crumble. I watch all around do that. In the end, it will be just little ol' me on my throne." He winks. "You'll win the game, Alastor. In the end, it will just be me, all alone, the Devil on his tarnished throne."

But, Alastor wants to insist, that isn't the game.

At this moment, staring at the busted up facade of the Hazbin Hotel, listening to Lucifer's ramblings, feeling the familiar peace that has been missing for so long, Alastor wonders if he has been playing a game at all.

 

Chapter 16

“It’s fuckin’ weird, right?” Angel Dust’s nasal tone cuts right through the low din of noise that floats in from the Lobby. 

Lucifer is stationed at the Front Desk, grinning at a pair of new residents as they are given the welcome spiel after checking in. Charlie waves her arms with animation as she describes all the amenities the Hazbin Hotel has to offer, and explains her hopes and dreams for them, and probably gives them the combination to the hotel safe in her effort to bond.

Several other residents chatter excitedly near the front doors, catching up before going their separate ways. A small group of demons wait for Charlie to finish so they can sign up for the variety of new classes on offer, chattering on about the new cooking class a certain resident is offering as way of community service for past transgressions.

Husk doesn’t look up from the glass he is wiping. 

“Don’t start it, Ang.” He warns.

But the Spider Demon has already started it.

“Smiles, ain’t it sooooo weird to live with yer ex?” He asks, leaning forward, hand on his wide chin.

Alastor flicks his attention from the books spread across the bar top. With Lucifer occupying his usual workspace, the snake having signed up for the day shift at the Front Desk before Alastor had secured Vagatha's babysitting services, he has had to get creative. 

“I do not have an ‘ex’.” He answers neutrally, scratching his pen across the thick ledger page.

“Lucifer! Ya kno, Lenny’s daddy!” Angel’s grin is positively shit-eating. 

“Her name is not ‘Lenny.’” Alastor snaps. “And Lucifer is not my ex.”

"Don't sell that shit to me! We all saw the two a’ youse last year, all buddy buddy an’ shit.” 

“I do not ‘buddy buddy.’” 

“We all know ya hadda be real buddy buddy to get Len- woah!” 

thump!

“What the Hell, man!” Angel exclaims from the floor, barstool having completely disappeared from under him. He rubs at his sore tuchus as he picks a new seat. 

thump!

It promptly vanishes the moment he hops on.

Alastor sends an enthusiastic round of applause through the air. 

He returns his attention to the number on the page. It is the final book. The last bit of inventory to be straightened out from his short absence. The numbers have been identified, matched, rearranged, recalculated, double-checked, and finalized.

The next deal he makes with the Princess will be to prevent her from ever attempting arithmetic operations again. 

Or to hire an accountant. 

Heaven knows there are enough CPAs down here. Rumor is that they don’t even realize they are dead, since Hell is much like their profession on Earth.

“I’m jus’ sayin’.” Angel pats his hand on the top of a stool farther away from Alastor and sits tentatively, smiles in victory and - 

thump!

“Satan’s tits, will ya knock it off!”

“Will you?” Alastor asks, entirely reasonably. He circles the sum total on the paper with a flourish, satisfied with his work if not with the dismal number.

No matter. Let Lucifer be of some assistance there without Alastor’s protest.

“Lucifer and I did not date.” Alastor says, to set the record straight.

The third time being the charm, Angel’s stool stays solid under his leather-clad bottom. He and Husker exchange a look and, my oh my, isn’t that interesting? The Bartender purses his lips and shakes his head minutely. The Pornstar widens his eyes and opens his hands, palms up, gesturing outwards. The Bartender’s eyebrow lowers even further, nearly hitting the ridge of his nose.

“Yes, Husker? Share with the class, will you?” Alastor commands sweetly.

“Nothing, Boss.” Husker grumbles.

“‘snot nothing!” Angel protests.

“Hmm, what is this ‘not nothing’ that you are keeping from me, Husker?” Alastor asks. 

Angel answers anyway, clearly not a student willing to raise his hand and be called on.

“You were real friendly that night, ya know, at the bar. Ya know the one.”

Yes, he supposes he does.

“Ange-”

“And you were real friendly on nights ‘afore that one too. Flirting at the bar. Sharing drinks. Dunno, maybe ya had a secret something.” 

Alastor’s magic pulls on the stitches of his smile to keep it up. “Nonsense! Mere colleagues. Excuse me, Gentlemen, I do believe I hear the dulcet tones of an angelic chorus!”

Quite the song they sang. Vaggie calling his name like a fishwife at the docks and the infant's wail of discomfort clashing and grinding together.

“Take it!” Vaggie barks.

The smell is horrendous. 

The red and pink pinstriped outfit Alastor had stuffed his child in this morning has a putrid yellow stain climbing up the back. 

“Ugh! It’s in her hair!” Angel screeches, gagging.

“Not on the bar!” Husk hisses, throwing himself over the freshly waxed top.

“What have you been feeding her?” Vaggie gasps.

“Mother’s milk, warm and fresh, only the best!” Alastor answers cheerfully in a sing-song voice, and snickers at the exaggerated mix of horror and disgust on Vaggie’s face. 

He holds up a hand to signal that he needs a moment, and removes his coat, carefully laying it across his vacant stool. Then he accepts the stinking, wailing infant into his arms. He would have preferred all his clothing to remain unsoiled but, if he has learned anything from his 8 week crash course in motherhood, some sacrifices are for the greater good. 

Time to assess the damage. The stain has spread out across the entire back. He sees it has gotten in the blonde curls at the base of her skull. She cries and gasps against his chest, rubbing her nose hard into him, frustrated and cold, seeking the comfort of feeding.

“None of that, young lady! You’ll spoil your supper.” He scolds gently. 

(Vaggie groans)

At the sound of his voice, the baby hiccups and her wet eyes work to focus on his face as he holds her out. He hums a snippet of an old working song, and nods decisively.

“Bath time it is!”

Ten minutes later, the floor of the bar is covered in suds, a variety of wet towels, and about an inch of water. Husk sighs in resignation. Angel, dripping wet, grins, eyes covered by his damp bangs. 

“What…happened?” Charlie asks, having finally wrapped up her introductions. 

Alastor, shirt stained and wet, grin genuine, cradles the naked, wrinkly infant in the crook of his arm. Several bubbles float up around him.

“I fear I’m all wet on this one! Ha!” He jokes. 

“Christ on a fucking stick.” Husk mutters, his own whiskers dripping water. 

Vaggie sighs and wipes her wet bangs away from her good eye, “Don’t ask, Babe. Just don’t ask.” She advises her girlfriend, wearily.

“Uh, Al? This yours?” 

Angel holds up the soggy remains of a very familiar, very ruined account book.

Fair enough, Alastor thinks, and sends a wave of hot wind to dry the room.

Angel’s fur poofs out like a prized poodle.

Vaggie’s hair sticks straight up. 

Husker sticks out in every direction, a style worthy of the spikiest pufferfish,

Worth it.

---

"The Coffee Incident,” as titled by Charlie, alternatively referred to as “Alastor’s Giant Fucking Hissy Fit in the Lobby,” by Vaggie, was not Alastor’s fault.

It was Lucifer’s.

As usual.

Still, Charlie’s shriek of surprise and pain as scalding hot coffee splashed down her front had been…unpleasant. The green glow slipped out from beneath her shuttered eyelids. Her arms, which had been spread to shield Alastor and the baby from the liquid projectile, snapped across her chest like a straight jacket.

Alastor and Lucifer now sat before Charlie’s desk, resolutely staring anywhere but at each other.

The King’s arms were crossed. His expression was a comical pout of truly royal proportions. In full royal regalia, but with the golden nametag proclaiming him Lucifer : Maintenance Manager, he looked the picture of privileged absurdity.

Alastor maintained his dignity. Well, as well as could be expected with an eight-week old balancing herself against his chest, alternatively testing her neck strength to stare directly at her mother’s face and then flopping face first into his jacket. At least he had not stooped so low as to wear one of those abominable golden placards on his lapel. 

The fact that one of the little golden placards had made it onto the gown of his child was a concession to her individuality. 

No accounting for taste. The little girl’s eye had lit up at the glint of gold when Charlie presented it to her. It at least saved him from having a few dozen conversations introducing his daughter’s name to residents and staff.

Marie Lenore: Assistant Facilities Manager

Her head pops back out and upwards to stare into his face. 

He winks at her.

The corners of her lips quirk up sharply in gummy mimicry of his Cheshire grin.

The impulse to stroke his finger through her curls is immediately satisfied, though he is careful not to upset the crimson gris-gris bow looped around her crown like a fallen halo or a fabric tiara.

“Quite bold for a lady who insisted on dancing the night away.” He murmurs to her in a low voice. “A scandal in the making.”

A prolonged squeak, a test of her talented vocal chords, is her wittism.

“Yes, but people do talk, my pet.”

“Scandal is in her genetics.” Lucifer puts in wryly.

Alastor’s kindness snaps away as he pivots his head to his left. 

“She is nothing like you!” He snarls.

Lucifer’s eyes go wide and he puts his hands up.

“No, no! I didn’t- that’s not - I meant you. She is - never mind.” He pouts, looking hurt.

He has no right to be upset.

“Lenore is mine.” Alastor growls. 

If he must say it another million times, if he must etch it into stone and ascend a mountain to declare it, he will do so. Lucifer has no right to her. He forfeited any right to that when he attempted to sacrifice her on the altar of his broken spine in a meager ploy to gain Heaven’s favor. Alastor will sink his teeth into the Devil’s throat before he would let the Devil claim her as his own.

Static scratches irritably in the air. It must rub at the baby’s sensitive skin since her good mood evaporates. She buries her nose in his coat once more and he moves his hand down her neck to soothe her grumbling.

“Yes.” Lucifer concedes easily.

Alastor summons a binkie, a Rosie Original, the bone base containing the carved image of a deer skull, and Lenore greedily sucks it into her puckered mouth.

“Good. You’re still here.” Vaggie says as she enters the room with a freshly laundered Charlie.

Alastor snorts. “Where, pray tell, could we possibly be after being ordered about like a couple of naughty school boys? Honestly, my dear, a teensy-tiny mishap and we face arraignment for high crimes of treason.” He pretends to adjust the bow at the high collar of Lenore’s gown.

“It was just an accident.” Charlie agrees with a smile, ever the peacekeeper.

“We need to have this talk.” Vaggie glares with her one eye, arms crossed, mouth pursed.

“Don’t make faces, dear, you’ll wrinkle.” He advises. “Strive for smile lines instead! Is there not a rainbow inside every demon? Let yours shine!”

Vaggie growls a low curse in Spanish.

A gentle hand on her shoulder grounds her. She looks up into Charlie’s face and that single look shared between them is a moment. It is a moment of absolute reassurance and support. An entire conversation happens at that moment, a primitive language that Alastor’s outsider perspective can’t translate.

Vaggie breathes deep. 

“If you both are staying here, we need ground rules.” 

“Agreed.” Alastor and Lucifer chorus, turn to glare at one another, and then turn to glare at the walls opposite, before turning once more in unison to Charlie.

"No more fighting over Front Desk duties, got it?"

“He can leave.” / “I’ll take over Front Desk.”

“Take over?” / “Leave?”

“It’s my job -” 

                        “-to manage the hotel.” / “-to protect the hotel.”

“I can do that too! You -"

                                      “Selfish, lazy, insecure-” / “tacky, scheming, anal-”

                                                                                                                    “stubborn piece of -”

“STOP!” Charlie screeches, hair flying about her demonic face. The lights flicker and a long forgotten glass on the window sill cracks at the abrupt change in temperature.

The baby’s eyes pop wide and she jerks against her mother’s front, wriggling against his automatic response to soothe, ultimately giving into the massage on her shoulder blades.

“Shhhhhh,” He sends a bit of warm white noise into the bubble of their space. He holds the binkie in place with one finger to prevent Round One of Lenore's favorite game, projectile the pacifier.

Her record is 10 feet, a slam dunk into Alastor's coffee mug.

“This has been a month from Hell - shut up, Alastor - with you two circling each other like feral cats.” Vaggie’s voice is crisp, no nonsense. “There is a lot of baggage here, we get that. But there is enough room at the hotel to unpack all that.” She breathes deeply, strengthening her will. “You both fucked up today. You have both fucked up plenty in the past…”

“I’m trying.” Lucifer insists. 

Alastor’s radio plays a few guffaws of canned laughter.

“I’m trying to be better!” The King shoots him a glare, arms crossed. But he might as well be on his knees for how he prostrates himself to gain favor with Charlie. Spineless coward. For all his bluster and rage, the Devil is a mere worm to the will of two women a fraction of his age and abilities.

“I know, Dad.” Charlie says softly.

"I really am." He whispers and stares at the ground.

She walks over then and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. He gives her a wet smile as he covers it with his own.

Alastor huffs and angles further away from the display. 

It is not often he miscalculates so far off the mark. Lucifer is not meant to be here. It was Alastor who was meant to take advantage of Charlie’s over trusting, forgiving nature. He was to guide her beyond the hotel doors, to the palace, to the throne. The Queen of Hell, bound by contract to protect his child, Alastor at her right hand. 

Heaven could not hope to come against such a team!

Then Lucifer had slithered his way back like the snake he could be. An offer to repair the lobby, a suggestion he stand guard for the evening, volunteering to take the first shift at the Front Desk, building up the wards…

Mere weeks later, the King was everywhere, always, anytime.

And Alastor had made it easier for him! Stepping away to feed or change or care for his child, and, before long, it would be an hour or two and there would be Lucifer, attending to guests, making repairs, greeting prospective residents.

His gaze…

Alastor never caught him looking, but that gaze was hot on his back. It coated him in attention. Never too close, just far enough out of range to avoid accusation. Never lingering. 

They did not speak.

Not a Hello or Good Morning or Good Evening.

What was there to say, truly? And why say it?

Actions spoke loud enough. 

Lucifer charmed all who encountered him. Staff, residents, Charlie. Always useful, always pleasant, always eager to please. 

But he had shown Alastor his true colors and they were turncoat. 

“The Devil be better? Taking a shot at redemption now? Ha!” Alastor asks. “How quaint! The Hazbin Hotel redeems the Devil.”

“Al, you know that’s not his preferred name.” Charlie says reprovingly. 

He shrugs. “Tough. Here at the Hazbin Hotel we are all about accepting oneself.” He flips a bit of rainbow confetti in the air, and it lands in a cool sprinkle of wind over Lenore’s sleepy smile. “He is the Devil, a snake, a traitor to Heaven and Hell, a- ”

“Al-”

“No, Charlie, it’s okay.” Lucifer interrupts. He stares until the demon is forced to acknowledge him. “I fucked up. You don’t trust me. That’s fine. But I’m trying. Give me a little credit here.”

The sound of a whistling tea pot spills into the air.

“You strapped me to a chair.” Alastor hisses. “You came into my home, strapped me to a chair, attacked me, all to kidnap my child. I owe you nothing.”

“Yeah, I fucked up!” Lucifer whines. “I just found out I had a secret love child and I -"

“Do not dare -!”

“- and I thought that she was part of your plot against Hell! Are you plotting against Hell?”

“Of course not!”

Not this time, anyway.

“Well, you’ve never been shy about overthrowing those in power! Right, Radio Demon? ”

“Well, if I’m so predictable, how about I start with you, Sire?”

“THAT’S KINDA MY POINT!”

“STOP!” Vaggie shouts. 

At some point, the two had stood up, so that Lucifer is nearly on his tiptoes and Alastor’s neck is cricked from leaning down. Vaggie stomps across the room to stand between them and uses her spear to prod them several feet back.

“We all have to live together!” She exclaims. “Whatever fucked up family dynamic that causes, we have to deal with it! Now! ”

Charlie nods, biting her bottom lip with her top teeth before she speaks, “We are a fucked up family. We are. But we are family. And I want you all here with me. We need to forgive each other. Can we try?”

“Yes!” Lucifer agrees immediately, nodding with enthusiasm.

“Alastor?”

“It is time for Lenore to go down for her nap, I think.”

“Alastor.”

Alastor turns from her, “Don’t, Charlie. Don’t ask that of me.” He hears the hollowness of his own voice and tries to walk away before the emptiness fills.

Charlie speaks before he can reach the door.

“You asked me to make sure she is safe.” She says quietly. “If Heaven comes, we’ll need my dad. Isn’t that why we made our deal? My dad will protect me, and I’ll protect her, and so…” Her voice fades off.

It is not why they made their deal. It was not for Lucifer’s assistance. It was to ensure Lucifer did not stand against them. It had nothing to do with recruiting the King to their side. But he sees now that is the unintended effect.

Lucifer has gotten himself out of Check.

The King waits for Alastor’s next move. Still as a marble statute, painted in reds and golds just as they were in Roman times. His glowing eyes are leveled at the demon. 

“I’ll protect her.” Lucifer offers. 

“I’ll protect mine.” Alastor says as he walks through the doorway.

---

Just as Alastor grew confident in his parenting abilities, the rug is pulled out from under his feet. 

It had been a rough day all around.

Cherri Bomb had been set off, so to speak, by a misjudged proposal down at the bar, and spent most of the early morning hours throwing her namesakes off the roof.  The hotel shook and rattled.  Angel Dust joined her when he returned from work and the two sang a duet about fireworks and hearts and love.

Pathetic fools.

Lenore seemed particularly disturbed, even after Alastor reinforced their room, and only Alastor’s static-free, original singing voice could calm her for nearly four hours. It was not difficult to hold the radio overlay from his voice, but it wasn’t natural for him, and the purity of it irritated his vocal chords.

His mood soured further at breakfast when again Lucifer snatched the last cup of coffee. 

No point in starting that fight. 

Again.

Then Lenore cluster fed, and so Alastor did not even get to confront the King on taking over Alastor’s scheduled shift at the Front Desk or the fact that Alastor was scheduled to quality check the deliveries that morning, both responsibilities having been handled by the nosy, overachieving, ass-kissing, groveling - 

No, Alastor had the pleasure of an infant gumming at his sore nipples and sucking him dry as he sat stuck in a chair. 

The morning came and went.

She would not nap.

He tried everything.

Rocking chair ✔

Pacing  ✔

Swaying  ✔

Warm bathe  ✔

Burping  ✔

White noise  ✔

Music  ✔

Singing  ✔

Whispering  ✔

Silence  ✔

Skin to Skin  ✔

Feeding  ✔ ✔ ✔ ✔ ✔ ✔ ✔

Her eyes were outlined in red, a sure sign of tiredness. She yawned. She sobbed. She nuzzled into his chest. She fed, fed, fed. 

It was never enough.

Alastor could feel the smile cracking on his face.

“You okay, Al?” Charlie had asked in the kitchen as he made himself a fresh pot of coffee to squirrel away to his room.

“Aces!” He exclaims, too loud, eye twitching. 

Lenore continues wailing. The sound echoes off the kitchen tiles and bounces back into Alastor’s skull. He shoves more white noise into the room to dampen it.

Apparently, his offspring, his own flesh and blood, takes that as a challenge to break the sound barrier.

Charlie retreats, wincing, and Alastor does not blame the girl for saving herself, for once.

The afternoon came and went.

The cluster feeding continued.

The demands continued. 

She slept in snippets, barely more than 20 minutes at a time, snapping awake the second her back touched the mattress, the blanket, cushion of a couch, mossy floor of the Bayou, whenever Alastor became over-confident in the soundness of her sleep.

At the witching hour, Alastor descends the stairs to the first floor, yawning loudly, disgruntled infant balanced on his shoulder.

“Rough night?” Lucifer asks softly from the desk.

Alastor is too tired to argue.

“Abso-*YAWN*-tively.” He yawns, nearly tripping over a low table but for Lucifer’s quick sweep of magic directing him to the left. “Much obliged.”

“Don’t mention it.” 

Lucifer is at his elbow then and Alastor should argue - this would be the right time to argue - but he is exhausted and burnt out from that day’s marathon in parenting. Fuck, how did his afterlife come to this? Cracked nipples, puke stained shoulders, dirty diapers, bedroom floor covered in discarded binkies, and receiving blankets and discarded shirts. 

“Sit.” 

Alastor sits.

Lenore begins to suck in her breath and whimper out her displeasure.

“What do you want?!” Alastor nearly shrieks, his radio all out of tune, sparking and spiking.

The whimpers crack into cries.

“Hey, hey. Calm, Alastor.” Lucifer is kneeling in front of him, and he has a hand on Alastor’s knee. He should strike out at the King. He should snap, and bite, and insult, and aim all this pent up energy and frustration and the one person who deserves it.

Lucifer rubs his thumb across Alastor’s kneecap. “Say no if you want, but I have a trick I can try, if you’ll let me.” He offers.

Alastor draws back.

“Say no, but I think I can help.”

Alastor is so, so overwhelmed and defeated, and his hindbrain can’t sense the clear threat here.

“Give it your best shot.” 

Lucifer’s hands are shaky as he gathers Lenore into his arms. Alastor lets her go, feeling numb, realizing defeat as cold air replaces the warmth of the baby’s body. 

The Radio Demon, so smug in his stubbornness, a puppet who pretended to pull the string, was bare before the King once more.

But Lucifer does not glorify in his defeat.

Instead, he positions Lenore over his right forearm, her little legs and arms dangling over the sides, his hand splayed across her belly, head tucked into his elbow. With his left hand, he rubs her back. The right mirrors the action with her belly. 

He starts to rock and the supersonic cries give way to a series of rippling burps, then to grumbles, and, eventually, finally, quiet into the soft huffs of sleepy breaths.

There is too much electricity in the silence for peace.

“There.” Lucifer whispers brightly, gaze trained on the sleeping infant. “Works like a charm. Charlie always fought hard during regressions.” 

He carefully flips her over onto his right arm. A black thumb, the same that had caressed Alastor’s knee, smooths the apple of her pink cheek, wiping away the tear track.

Lucifer drops down next to Alastor on the lobby sofa.

Their arms touch.

They both stare down at the sleeping baby.

“But you’re a fighter too, huh?” Lucifer whispers to her.

Alastor should stop this.

“I’m so sorry.” Lucifer chokes on the words. There are tear tracks on his red cheeks. “Don’t forgive me. Please don't. You shouldn’t. But I’m so, so sorry.” 

“When did you realize?” Alastor asks, genuinely curious, too tired to take any desire in refusing Lucifer the forgiveness he already admitted he shouldn't get.

Lucifer shudders, and a tear falls onto the baby’s blanket, “Ch-charlie was hold-ing her.” He stutters on a sob.

Ah, yes. Alastor might have guessed. The triumphant return to the damaged hotel. Charlie running down the stairs, in near tears with relief that it was over, distraught that she had encountered a resident and decapitated them without a second thought. Vaggie comforting her. Angel and Husker marveling over all the blood on the floor, staining the walls, as Nifty hyperventilating over the same. 

Lucifer standing, shell-shocked, staring directly at Alastor's child in Charlie's embrace.

Alastor had snatched her away then, returning to his room to tremble and fawn over his child without witnesses. His lips pressed a thousand kisses on her skin. He whispered a thousand promises, a thousand apologies. His brain was so full of spells and plots and schemes to keep her safe that he could not begin to plan his revenge on Heaven and his enemies.

Then his child, his intelligent, irreplaceable child, had quirked her lips, eyes glowing bright blue, and he felt his heart lift.

"Lenore." He had whispered. 

Light.

Marie, for his mother. Lenore, for her light. 

"Lenore." Lucifer whispers.

 

Chapter 17

Alastor began his studies in the art of Voodoo when he was fifteen.

Many called it a religion, and, to be sure, it was, but Alastor had never been enamored with stuffy doctrines and afterlife as he had been by art. Religion had been a staunch, strict thing for his grandmere, a thing of fear for his mother, and another tool of control for his nominal father. But art could be anything and that held far more potential for Alastor than a silly old thing like religion.

Voodoo was art.

“You outta be ashamed of yourself, boy!” A deep brassy voice called from the base of the old tree.

Alastor rolled his eyes and continued to read his book. Dante’s Inferno, a gift from his grandfather.

“Your maman’s been hollering for you for hours.” The man informed him.

“Then my mother may retrieve me at her leisure.” Alastor called back, haught and with crisp dictation. 

“No need to muddy her pretty slippers, as I see it.” 

“You should not be here.”

“Neither should you. Yet, here we are.”

Alastor looked down then. The man looked the same as any other time Alastor has seen him. Rough cotton shirt with a too tight maroon, dark matching coat and trousers, worn out top hat. 

Strong and handsome. 

Dark and smiling.

His mother’s Shadow Man. 

“My tutor is being tedious.” Alastor said, sniffing. 

Shadow Man - Sam, he had told Alastor to call him some years ago - laughed deep. The sound echoed in the bayou. It fit here: rich, and big, and dark. “Always said nothing to be learned in the schoolroom.” He chuckled.

“I prefer private study.” Alastor held up his treasure, his new book.

“Not much to be learned from books neither.”

“I should have known you were illiterate.”

Sam grinned again. He always did, no matter how bratty Alastor got. Perhaps that is why his mother chose this man to ruin be their ruin. Danger stuck to him like white on rice. Alastor has read enough to know women never choose right. Eve. Helen of Troy. Juliet. Donna di Scalotta. Always willing to fall to satisfy that itch for something more, something different.

“Nah, good lessons only come from the bayou! All good things come from the bayou!” The man practically shouted it, and the bayou answered. Birds flutter off their perches, several frogs leapt into the water, and - Alastor was sure of it - a herd of deer take off deeper into the darkness.

His mother's husband- a poor shot anyway - would be disappointed tomorrow when the local judge came round for their drunken hunt.

“You come from the bayou.” Sam said, more quiet.

Alastor jumped down then. He landed neatly on two feet. He had grown taller that summer, and it took a bit of practice to adjust to his new lankiness. Thank Heavens, he did not stumble over his own two feet in front of Shadow Man. 

Shadow Man - Sam - had both been pointedly absent and a constant of Alastor’s childhood. He was clearly a figure of some notoriety - any man who earned himself such a moniker certainly had to be - but pinning him down was the problem. The man might be seen in passing - in town, walking down the lane, in the bayou as Alastor explored, chatting with the staff out near the cabins - a hundred times a summer. It was only when Alastor wanted to see him, to talk to him, that the Shadow Man disappeared.

Brushing off his pants, he pointedly did not look at the man as he plucked his wide-brimmed sun hat back on his head.

“Well, I suppose it is high time I return home. Can’t risk getting too much sun. It damns my complexion. No need to fetch me after all. Enjoy the bayou and the still on our land.” He said stiffly.

“Shine had a good part in your making too.” Sam huffed under his breath.

Alastor pretended to miss that bit of trivia.

“Alastor.” 

Alastor turned. Sam’s face was caught in the shadows of the late afternoon. His expression was unreadable.

His father had never called him by name.

“I didn’t come to fetch you. I ain’t your mother’s hound and you near grown. No need for me to be fetching grown men. Nah, I got a favor to ask.” Shadow Man explained.

He held out a flask.

Alastor stared at it.

“Go on.”

“What’s that?”

“Drink.”

“Why?”

“Tends to make the favor asking more successful. You ask too many questions for a young man being offered liquor.”” Shadow Man winked.

Alastor was not stupid. But he was a fifteen year old boy. That first gulp - too much, over confident in his enthusiasm - burned. Alastor spat and coughed. The Shadow Man’s laughter rang through the bayou again and he clapped Alastor hard on the back.

“Easy, boy! Haha! You really is just like your mother!”

Alastor’s cheeks burned.

“He won’t like you on our land.” He snapped.

“Don’t figure I care much about what that man’s likes. You understand.” Shadow Man winked again.

“My grandfather is visiting. He won’t like it.” 

“What the masters don’t know won’t hurt them. Sides, men like them, all fat and pride, don’t last long in the South. It's the skinny tough ones like us that become wiry and old!” 

Alastor tried not to be warmed by the comparison. 

But then Sam’s smile dropped and he shook his head. “Some do. The lucky ones. Take another drink - slow, now, let it slide down, there you are.”

They walked a bit further. Alastor took another drink, then another. It was cool from the metal flask and welcome in the stifling Louisiana heat.

The liquor warmed in his chest. The attention and the liquor warmed him. The attention and the liquor and the sun warmed him. 

Alastor’s head spun a bit.

“I got a job in the city to do. I’ll be away for a bit.” Sam was saying, oblivious to Alastor’s state. “You got to take care of your mother while I’m away.” 

He held out a pouch, brown leather and tied tight with a bit of cotton twine.

“Hide this in your mother’s room. Under her bed, back in the closet, don’t matter. Just don’t let no one find it.”

“I’m not helping you with your voodoo hoodoo nonsense.” Alastor bit back. 

Of course, the favor. Shadow Man did not do anything for free, not even walk with his- with Alastor and share a drink. There was a cost. 

Voodoo wasn’t forbidden per se on the plantation. It was discouraged though. Some of the cabins had shrines, but they were careful to focus their idols on Catholic imagery. It was pure neglect on the part of their local pastor that voodoo had gained the foothold here that it had. 

“Get our family to do it.”

Alastor was confident that Shadow Man was born on the plantation, just as Alastor was. Different bed, different setting. He was equally confident he had met his entire extended family at some point in his life. There were some staff that stare too long, and treat him too familiar to be strangers. There was an old man who worked in the stables who looked like Shadow Man, and who had Alastor’s sharp chin, that may have been his grandfather. One of the kitchen staff was certainly an aunt, or a cousin. 

But, of course, without actually being claimed by the man who was certainly his father, Alastor had no claim to them either.

“Apologies. Your family.” He corrected.

“I’ll make you a deal.” The Shadow Man offered. His voice was calm and level, but there was a touch of kindness there. “Hide this little trinket in your mother’s room, safe and hidden, and I’ll teach you how to work the still before I go.”

Alastor, like any fifteen year old boy, became very interested in the proposal.

He shook on it.

---

The pot is cast iron and is so large as to double as a wash tin for an imp. But it is not for such a defiling purpose today, even if Alastor’s silver tongue could convince the little critter in.

Gumbo is on the menu.

Alastor casts some good ol’ swing jazz onto the radio.

Flour and oil bubble and flirt over low heat until the roux is the color of a dark copper penny. 

The trinity comes next. No, not that holy nonsense. The real trinity: onions, peppers, celery. Alastor chops several pounds of each.

chopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchop

Swiiiiiiish plop!

The butcher knife slides the vegetables into the pot of roux. The wooden spoon stirs and coats them all so they are dressed in the thick sludge. The brown-red coat slips down like a tease in Mimzy’s burlesque club.

“The veg needs to soften so the roux will stick.” Alastor instructs Charlie, turning down the music with a wave of his hand.

“How long will that take?” She asks. Her fingers are itching to make a note on the pad she had brought into the kitchen. But her arms are filled with Lenore and she is not yet confident enough to hold the sleeping child with only one arm. Lenore’s insistence on sprawling across one’s chest, arms and legs star-fished out, does require a bit of dexterity.

Alastor shrugs. “When the roux sticks.” He winks.

Charlie grins back.

The pot is not for dinner tonight, but for tomorrow. Alastor has insisted to Charlie that gumbo is better the next day. Time for the flavor to marinate. So, instead of snarling and bumping into his fellow staff tomorrow as they all fight for counter space, Alastor works in peace and patience. Gumbo deserves nothing less.

He hums as he clears the vegetable scraps into a bowl. Perhaps Angel Dust’s swine will enjoy them. 

“I’m so excited to see what everyone makes!” Charlie gushes. “Hell does not really have our own culture.” 

“I find Hell’s culture to be delightful!” Alastor protests, grinning wide.

Charlie rolls her eyes, “Pentagrams and hellfire aren’t culture. Or, at least they aren’t here. Sinners are so different. There are no common traditions, no same experience, no shared history. Especially since the exterminations. They drove you further apart, made you more desperate for survival, protection.” She sighs and leans her cheek on top of Lenore’s blonde curls, “I never felt like I had a community here. Not like you did on earth.”

Alastor turns back to stirring the pot. “So you hope that sinners might find community in the traditions of their upbringing?”

“Maybe. Did your mother make you gumbo as a child?”

“Heavens no!” Alastor laughs. “Though I fancy she credits herself with the recipe. No, but she would sit and boss around the cook as the two hens gossiped! Maman would order more spice, more tabasco, more heat and Cook would call it the Devil’s Gumbo at the end. I’ll hold off on the heat, I think, for our lowly sinners in Hell.”

He leans against the counter and wipes his hands on his apron.

If he closes his eyes, he can still hear his mother’s high and happy laughter. Her tongue was free from the cook’s hard cider and the two women’s talk dissolved into absurdity by the time the meal could be served. All the house staff would join them in the kitchen then, some sitting, most standing, all laughing. Alastor would sit right in the middle of the table with his bowl, his mouth burning up, his mother laughing and wiping at the tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Nothing wrong with a little fire, hmm, mon coeur?” She would giggle, more than half drunk.

Those were the good meals, the happy ones.

When the Master of the House was away.

(“Where is your Shadow Man?” Cook asked.

“Up to no good, I reckon.” His mother hissed and took a gulp of cider. 

“Looked mighty fine at St. John’s Eve. Shadow Man cleans up fine for celebrating, he does. You both looked mighty fine indeedy. Dancing as you was.”

Alastor looked up from his toy soldiers. His mother - dancing?

“Shush, you ninny!”

“Ha, my sweet Marie, don’t you know there ain’t no hiding in shadows round here? Eyes can see in the dark.”

“I said shush.”)

“It will be so much fun!” Charlie insists.

It would be something, Alastor agrees. A riot of cultures colliding and fighting for space in the Hazbin Hotel, just as the personalities and trauma do any other day. A bubbling pot of history and tradition and belief that is bound to boil over when they all realize they are dead and half the point of tradition had been to celebrate life.

At least there will be gumbo.

Charlie chatters on about that week’s schedule. She has revamped the Front Desk assignments, splitting the shifts into 2 hour spans that coincidentally correlate with Lenore’s usual napping schedule. It is over-complicated in the explanation, as is Charlie’s tendency to explain the same idea three ways so an outsider may be led astray, but Alastor has quite sufficient experience with the girl to see through the trick.

He hums his acknowledgement of her plans and does not bother to commit any to memory.

Okra joins her sisters in the pot, with a half bunch of parsley. Then he pours a pot of chicken stock, having cooked up a chicken earlier this week for the liquid gold, and throws in chopped chicken as well. He adds blue crabs - halved, claws removed - and oysters. He does not missed Charlie’s face as he pours in some of their juice.

“We are building flavor, my dear. They blend, marry, and the whole is more delectable than the sum of its parts.” Alastor answers, throwing in a last oyster after a thought. He added quite a bit of veg and balance is to be accounted for.

“Much like our wayward sinners!” He laughs.

“You can’t eat them!” Charlie says quickly. 

Alastor laughs again, louder.

“Oh, I’m sorry! You meant… I thought…”

“I meant that our residents are multifaceted. Though they would, since you brought it up, be delectable, with the right ingredients. Haha!” 

Charlie giggles, despite herself. It is nice, he thinks, to do the mundane. An Overlord rarely bothers with it. The rise to power is a dedicated climb. When each move is planned with three others in mind, one does not usually bother to put on an apron and play cook. But here, in the kitchen, listening to jazz and Charlie’s eager chatter, chopping celery and stirring the pot, his nerves relax and he can smile with genuine happiness.

Lenore snuffles against Charlie’s shoulder.

And there’s her. His daughter. His Lenore. His blood to pass on Cook’s creole recipes, the voodoo magic that lights up his blood, the spirit of New Orleans that drew him back again and again, despite his mother’s warnings and pleas.

He smiles.

“Smells…like something.” Vaggie says as she intrudes on what was a happy moment.

“Gumbo!” Charlie says. “Alastor’s dish for Culture Night!” 

Alastor hums in affirmation as he washes his hands.

Time for the real magic.

Cayenne pepper

Bay leaves

Black pepper

Tabasco

Worcestershire sauce

He lifts his palm high and SLAMS it onto the clove of garlic. The women jump. Lenore barely snuffles. SLAM. SLAM. SLAM. Three more cloves join their brethren.

Chopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchop

Swiiiiiiish plop!

“Aye aye!” Vaggie exclaims. “Too much garlic, my man!”

“Never!” Alastor puts a hand - garlicky, he’ll need to change shirts after this - to his chest.

“It’s practically garlic soup!” 

“It’s gumbo and it’s meant to have flavor.” 

“Yeah, it’s your soup and all, but I’m pretty sure it’s meant to have more than one flavor.”

Alastor sniffs - smelling garlic - and, with a final stir, puts the lid on his perfectly flavored gumbo.

“Vaggie!” Charlie scolds. “We celebrate. We-”

“-don’t judge.” Vaggie says with her. 

“My delicate, sensitive feelings!” Alastor puts his face in his hands and - wow - that garlic is potent.

“Vaggie…”

“You gotta be shitting me.”

“ Vaggie.”

“Vagatha.” Alastor croons.

Vaggie clenches her fists at her side. “I am sorry, Alastor, for judging the boatload of garlic you shoved in the poor, unsuspecting soup.”

“Gumbo.” Charlie corrects.

“Whatever. But this means I’ll need to get more for my dish. And I’m sure Angel needs some for his Italian feast.” Vaggie adds as the Spider Demon joins them.

Angel Dust grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. He is sweating and dressed in elastic shorts and a training bra. Jazzercise. Alastor recalls the schedule, the addition being one of his own suggestions, even if he does not partake. Culture is this week’s theme for therapy groups, projects, and, of course, their end of week celebration of togetherness. 

Ugh.

Vagatha had blabbed something about Jazzercise having little to do with jazz but, honestly, he never takes her word as gospel. Today’s demonstration of her appalling culinary opinions is proof he should continue on as planned.

“Hey, Lenny.” Angel coos.

The baby has opened her eyes - perhaps having been a touch disturbed by Alastor’s mutilation of the garlic - and now watches the limber demon with interest. The clock is ticking until she realizes her mother is present. Alastor’s aching chest screams for relief. The feeling of need jitters down his arms. There goes the pleasant relaxation of cooking. Just a bit longer.

He needs to wash his hands or Lenore will smell of garlic and onions for days.

There is no help that he already will. It sticks to the skin, even after washing. Cook always smelled of spices and onions, and fresh baked bread. Or ginger when she made up Alastor’s favorite cookies.

She would have made it to Heaven.

Cook was all goodness and love.

Most of the folks in the household were.

“Not her name.” Alastor corrects.

“Lenny, baby doll, what you gonna wear to the party, huh?” He asks, ignoring Alastor.

Charlie insisted on traditional dress.

Even though traditional dress for the sinners when alive often consisted of skinny jeans, tube tops, leg warmers, and the like. Some of the sinners tried to explain that their families just didn’t do traditions. Luckily, Vaggie took over and paired them with a sinner who had something to offer. It worked out well. Sharing and coming together and, ugh, this all really is quite revolting.

“A baby tiara and sceptah?” Angel suggests, tickling beneath the baby’s chin. 

“Lenore will wear her usual dress, as will I.” Alastor answers smoothly.

“Little princess needs to celebrate her heritage!” Angel argues, smirking, brow cast low and unfriendly over his eyes, “From both sides of the family. The royal side.”

“Angel. Stop.” Vaggie demands. She steps up to the Spider Demon and the size difference is comical. But she is no shrinking violet and the power of her presence is usually enough to cow the demons around her.

“Ya can hardly keep it secret!” Angel laughs. A cruel laugh, high. “She is the spitting image a’ tha King.”

Lucifer walks in at that part. His eyes are wide as saucers and, with his mouth open in a surprised ‘O’ , so like Lenore’s ‘ o’ of rapt attention, the likeness is certainly uncanny. Painted in new shades, a bit of artistic license in the angles, but even at such a young age it is clear that Lenore will be a beauty like her father.

Alastor growls.

“Lenore is mine.”

“And Lucifer’s. Princess Lenore Morningstar. Nice ring to it.” Angel retorts.

Radio silence.

Then Alastor is on him in the next instant. His mind is numb. His hands are around the demon’s throat, pressing in with his thumbs, the hyoid bone bending under pressure. Hands grip at his shoulders, trying to pull him off, but Alastor has to-

A hand fists the back of his coat and pulls him off with no give, slamming his hip into the counter and nearly upsetting the gumbo pot.

Angel gags and coughs.

Alastor’s radio flips through channels, static catching and distorting any music they manage to find, and he is breathing hard.

“You’re okay, Alastor. She’s okay and you’re okay.” Lucifer is saying at his elbow. He is staring up with those glowing golden orbs, like Alastor is the only thing worth seeing.

“Okay! He just choked me out!” Angel coughs.

“They heard. I know they did. They heard!” Alastor gasps.

Lucifer shushes him. “They don’t listen to Sinners. I won’t say it. I won’t claim her. I promise. I swear. She is okay. You are okay, Alastor.” He lays a hand on Alastor’s forearm and squeezes a reassurance.

“You know what? Fuck you both!” Angel cries and stomps from the room.

Charlie sighs, “That’s another session to schedule.” With Lenore secured in a curled lump tucked into her side, Charlie using her free hand to scratch a note.

Alastor + Angel Circ. Talk Contest

“Absolutely not.” 

“Oh, please! Alastor, you never did talk it! That’s just not healthy for a friendship!” Charlie whines.

Friendship.

Absolutely not.

“I protected my child. I sufficiently explained that at the time. I have nothing to apologize for.” Alastor takes Lenore from Charlie. His chest practically throbs as his nose catches her scent.

“The gumbo will simmer for several hours. Do not lift the lid.” He advises as shadows swallow him into their depths.

---

Alastor’s hands still smell of garlic and cayenne as he pets Lenore’s curls. He toys with the ribbon looped around her skull in a bow. It feeds on the rich spices as the baby feeds at Alastor’s chest. Old phrases, snippets of prayers, a chant or two falls from his lips and he threads radio static and blood into the rhythm, slicing the end of his finger on the tip of one of his claws.

Voodoo is an art as well as a religion.

The gris-gris feeds on the offering.

He slits open his eyes. Green, familiar symbols float in the air. They shine with a brilliant light and it reflects off Lenore’s light curls. A drop of blood drips down from his finger, staining them. She’ll need to be bathed. Or he might leave it there, a bit of blood magic never hurt for extra protection.

His throat is thick with chanting. His mouth is closed. His voice floats through the air.

Shadows move around the room.

Dancing.

They collide with glowing sigils and burst out of existence.

Alastor sighs.

“Lovely.” Lucifer says from the doorway. 

Alastor jolts up in the chair. “Get out.” He commands, hurriedly grabbing the side of his shirt to cover himself. For all he told Charlie there was no shame in it, he did not want Lucifer to see him so disarmed.

“The magic, I meant.” Lucifer clarifies. “Voodoo, right? You brought it here.” 

“It is part of my array of powers.” Alastor says. He tries for unfriendly but the King continues to just stand there.

“Voodoo practitioners rarely manifest here. Not really the right kind of heathen, despite church propaganda. It's the same with shamans and medicine men and astrologists. That kind of magic is extraordinary.”

“Can I be of assistance, Sire? I’m busy.” Alastor asks.

Lucifer blinks.

“Ahh, yeah. You got pretty worked up back there. In the kitchen. I just want you to make sure you are okay.”

“I’m okay.”

“Good! Good! Great! Gre-”

“Lucifer.”

“I will protect her.” Lucifer says quietly. “I swear. I won’t claim her. I don't deserve her. I won't try. But I can protect her. With all I am. All I have."

Alastor closes his eyes again. It is tiring. He has been an Overlord nearly since he dropped into Hell and that comes with a certain amount of constant danger. This danger is different and it is at all angles. Sinners who might try at Vox’s challenge even if it is withdrawn, just for a chance at freedom. Heaven, quiet and indirect in this, could win without effort. He has not even attended a meeting of the Overlords to gauge their positions.

Lucifer.

He’s still on the board too. 

Alastor won’t fall for the Devil’s silver tongued lies. He is not Eve in the garden, staring into the serpent's eyes. He is not his mother, drunk in the bayou with another man’s hand up her skirts. He is not drunk on the floor, kissing apple sweet lips and getting drunker on breathy panting and fevered touches.

Alastor won’t fall.

“Much appreciated.” He says and presses a bit more magic into the ribbon. 

The room goes quiet, but for his hum of static and Lenore's happy hums as she suckles.

Lucifer leaves after another awkward moment.

A golden dragonfly flits at the corner of the room. With a flick of his bloody finger, one of Alastor’s shadows devours it.

Chapter 18

Notes:

Here we go - it gets dramatic real quick.

The Front Desk can be entertaining.

Lucifer did not see the appeal, at first. It seemed so servile. It was a mixed bag of guests who visited the Front Desk in the dark of the night. Some would turn and run at first glance that it was the King and not Alastor manning the post. Most mumbled their inane requests. A select few reveled in ordering the King around.

Lucifer has a bit of fun in return.

A third set of towels? Enjoy the scratchiest, driest cloth in Hell.

Need an early morning wake up call? Enjoy a bucket of ice water and a drumline in your room.

Locked out of the room again? Enjoy falling into a neverending black hole for several hours.

Okay, so the last one was one time and it had been a Sinner coming on a bit strong for Lucifer’s cranky late night attitude.

Mostly, it was boooooorrrring.

Hours and hours of nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs and complete whatever stupid guest requests came in the basket. It was not at all challenging for a seraphim with nearly unlimited power and resources at his disposal. 

Charlie cautions him against *air quotes* over-doing it *end air quotes*.

But when he works on his duckie designs at the desk, Vaggie says - passive-aggressively, with a comfort level that does warm Lucifer’s heart that she can speak her mind to him - he is not being *air quotes* consumer focused *end air quotes*. 

Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't.

Tonight, he tap tap taps his nails on the marble center of the desk.

Tap taptap tap taptap tap tap taptap tap taptap tap tap taptap

He flicks his pinky nail onto the wood outline.

Tip tip tip tiptip tip tip tip tiptip tip tip tip tiptip tip tip tiptip

Annnnnnd add in fingers on the underside -

Top top top top top top top top top top top top top top top top top top

Little heel action!

Clack clack clack clip clack clack clack clip clack clack clack clip clack clack clack clip

Another pair of shoes on the lobby floor turns his solo into a duet.

Clippity clack! Clack! clip! clip! clip! clip! clack! clack! clack! clippity clippity clippty clack! Clack!

Lucifer smiles.

Alastor is doing a tap dance in the middle of the floor, staff twirling between his two hands like a baton.

What a dork.

Lucifer focuses the lobby lights into a single spotlight, centered on the dancing demon. Alastor does a spin, jumping into the air with a flourish, and his feet resume their tap tap tap -ing the moment they hit the floor. 

A piano joins their taps, then a golden fiddle.

(Lucifer holds off on adding the accordion.)

(This time.)

Alastor laughs.

Clippity clack! Clack! clip! clip! clip! clip! clack! clack! clack! clippity clippity clippty clack! Clack!

With a final spin, Alastor slides forward on his knees, arms spread, stopping just before the Front Desk. His chest heaves. His crimson eyes are bright with mirth.

Beautiful.

Ehem.

A beautiful performance.

“Gonna make it, old man?” Lucifer asks, grinning.

Alastor reaches up to put a hand on the desk, and levers himself up to his feet. He dusts off his jacket with movements so sharp they could cut glass. Sure, Mr. Calm-and-Collected, the act would be more believable if the opening hadn’t been a tap dance worthy of a vaudeville act.

“Certainly you, of all beings, are not bringing up age? I believe the phrase ‘robbing the cradle’ could describe our shared event.” Alastor says with a sniff.

Shared event.

Yeah, they fucked. 

And Lucifer will now never get to live it down. 

He’s not sure if it is something to live down. 

Sure, he wishes with all he is and has ever been that Angel Dust would stop with the ‘friendly tips’ on how Lucifer can please his future partners in bed. He also wishes that his sweet, innocent daughter did not cringe when someone made reference to knowing the score or their points after a night out.

His poor reputation. Fuck the first woman, add the second woman to have a rocking threesome, and provide them with more points than any of these Sinners could imagine and it all doesn’t matter for one drunken shared event.

Fucking Hell, it’s not like it’s a secret how hot-and-cold Alastor can be. 

How hot Alastor can be.

Fuck, no, Lucifer, stop it! Bad! Turn off that out-of-focus home movie and burn the copies.

The demon waves his microphone and a shower of green, purple, and gold beads cover the desk and Lucifer. They rattle as he parts them away from his face like curtains. Alastor grins maniacally as he swooshes his microphone around, a conductor controlling his band with a baton.

ZAP!

An enormous pair of Comedy and Tragedy masks hang over the front doors.

ZAP!

Purple and green bunting, tied at regular intervals with a golden fleur-de-lis, circles the lobby ceiling, the banister of the stair case, and drapes across every doorway, surface, and chandelier. 

ZAP!

More Mardi Gras beads litter the lobby.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What is this?” Lucifer twirls a beaded necklace around his finger.

Alastor laughs and does one more ZAP! and a mini float/pram - a riot of fleur-de-lis and magnolia circling a cradle, Marie Lenore sleeping peacefully in the center - appears before him. 

Sleeping like an angel.

An angel so far above him she might well be in the Heaven who might steal her anyway.

His fault. All his fault. Impulsive, stupid Lucifer shoving everyone away who might love him.

But Alastor is right. 

She isn’t Lucifer’s to claim. 

His daughter. A girl with his eyes - his real eyes, free of hellfire - with a smile that could melt all of Heaven and he has held her exactly one time. Fuck. How was he supposed to see her, hear her babbles, feel the power of her presence and not fall in love?

His fault.

All his fault.

Another sin to atone for another eternity.

He tears his eyes from the little sleeping beauty at Alastor’s cheery voice.

“Your highly creative daughter had a late night idea that the hotel should celebrate all cultures in decor as well as individual performances! The festivities are set to begin in the afternoon and culminate in a feast of togetherness and love.” His tongue dangles for a second on the word, as if it is foul to the taste. 

Lucifer shuts his eyes. “Has my highly creative daughter told anyone they are performing? Besides you?” He asks, knowing the answer.

“Nope!” Alastor cackles. “Just imagine the excitement such unexpected public performances will bring our guests!”

Ah, the misery of others. That explains the good mood.

“And the Mardi Gras theme…”

“Well, the best culture should be front and center!”

“ Right.”

“It is fortune’s chance that my gumbo is ready to go - “

“Hold on, when did Charlie have this late night idea?”

“Ah, details, details…”

Yup, still a grade A certified asshole.

“If you will excuse me…I have to decorate the hallway of floor two in a Parisian flair for our dearest chef, and make the lounge mexicana, somberos and donkeys and the like, and, hmmmmm, perhaps some fortune cookies and those spiffy flat hats for the therapy rooms. Very fun-sway, as they say.”

“I actually don’t think they do say. Al, maybe the Sinners should express their own cultures…”

A blat of an outraged record scratch.

“Are you implying I would be deficient-”

“Nah, I’m outright saying that, maybe, I don’t know, those are stereotypes?”

Alastor sniffs, but considers it, “Point taken. I have not a fathom what a Texan considers culture.”

Lucifer blinks.

Alastor had taken his advice. Without a knock-out, bloody fight to the double death. Constructive criticism swallowed with a surprising amount of grace and humility. Lucifer is real sure there is only a coat check in the back - and an odd room marked ‘milk’ with a doodle of a cow - but Alastor seemed to have checked his ego at the door this morning.

Maybe it will be a good day.

---

Yup, he jinxed it. 

Or their time had finally run out keeping Heaven waiting for the usual default obedience. 

Culture Night - eww, it kinda sounds like a science exhibit gone wrong when you say it too much - is a smash hit. Surprisingly. The performances, chaotic and random, are a pleasure. There is plenty of smiling. 

Charlie is so, so happy.

She dances a waltz with Lucifer when a new resident performs a piece on a harp, a haunting and beautiful piece that brings them all to tears. Then she grabs little Lenore from Alastor and bounces with her to a more upbeat country western song. After that, Vaggie joins her and they giggle through an Avian Demon’s attempt at instructing the room on how to line dance.

Vaggie catches Charlie as she stumbles over her own hooves. They giggle. Lenore smiles up from between them, toothless and pointed and wide. A smile so like her mother’s. Well, two out of three like her mother. Alastor is literally the opposite of toothless. 

But Lenore is so, so much like Charlie and, for a moment, it is easy for Lucifer to imagine Charlie with her own little one, her partner by her side. 

A family.

He never was able to give that to his children. Sure, Lilith left - but Lucifer did not stop her. Charlie grew up in a broken home. There were years where Lucifer could not bring himself to call for her birthday, or at holidays. It hurt him. And he hurt her. Then with Lenore…

Alastor strides over to reclaim Lenore. His smile - always sharp - is about as soft as is possible for the Overlord. He cradles the girl close to him, laughing at some remark Vaggie makes, the innate impulse to be an asshole apparently dampened in the joy and frivolity of the celebration. His gloved hand combs through golden, crimson-tipped curls. He lets it be guided down when a little hand captures his long pinky finger and brings it to her mouth to chew with a gnawing viciousness.

As if they needed further proof she is Alastor’s daughter.

Charlie bops her little sister on the nose in a playful reprimand.

And Lucifer stands outside this picture perfect moment.

Alastor meets his eyes for an instant. His smile chills and his posture stiffens almost imperceptibly. Then he turns away so Lucifer can no longer see the child in his arms. Another forgiveness that will never be granted. 

All Lucifer’s fault.

The air shifts and grows heavy. It draws Lucifer’s attention away from the scene. The lights flicker and brighten. A sweet sound, a chorus of bells mixed with the hum of the blazing sun, rings in his ears. 

They are coming.

“Dad?” Charlie is at his elbow. “Dad? Are you okay?”

He’s hyperventilating.

KNOCK

KNOCK

KNOCK

It echoes through the chatter and music and merrymaking. Heads turn, eyebrows quirk, some shoulders shrug.

KNOCK

KNOCK

KNOCK

“Don’t answer.” He whispers. 

Charlie’s eyes widen. 

KNOCK

KNOCK

KNOCK

“Sir, what should we do?” Vaggie asks from his other side. She holds her spear. A fellow angel, even fallen, would be able to hear their call.

KNOCK

KNOCK

THUMP

CRAAAAACK!!

The doors bow inwards at the sound of splitting wood. Another THUMP! and they nearly crash apart, held together only by a sliver and a prayer. The music dies. The laughter drains into whispers and hushed murmurs.

They all look to Charlie.

Her eyes glow green.

“No.” Lucifer groans.

“Everyone listen up! Shut it down!” Vaggie shouts. “To your rooms now!”

The last order reverberates off the walls as Alastor shoves his microphone in front of her. Lenore is no longer in his arms. Lucifer can’t find a trace of her as he whips his head around, mind racing, trying to scramble together a plan that keeps Charlie from entering a fight she can’t win.

“-rooms! Lock the doors, arm yourselves for defense only - do not attack first! Go to your rooms! The stairs, you idiots, use the stairs!”

“Lucifer - remember your promise!” Alastor hisses in his ear, leaning down with his arm still outstretched to broadcast Vaggie’s shouts.

CRAAAASH - THUMP THUMP - WHOOOSH!

A gale of wind whips clothing and hair around. Lucifer steps forward, his own appearance undisturbed, and he pretends at calm regality. He curves his lips into a smirk, two hands gripping his apple cane to keep them from shaking, cocking a hip for good measure.

He’s a king. The King. This is his kingdom and these are his people. 

“Brother. How unexpected.” He drawls.

Michael sweeps his cold gaze around the hotel lobby. The Mardi Gras decor had been slowly bastardized by the very stereotyped decorations that Lucifer warned Alastor against. A sombrero hangs off the Comedy and Tragedy masks. Chinese lanterns tangle with the fleur-de-lis bunting. There is a clog hanging from the chandelier. A grass skirt covers the Front Desk lamp. Tiki torches and strings of Christmas lights illuminate most of the room.

“Charming little place you have here, Lucifer.” He finally says. 

“This is Charlie’s hotel. We are having a private party. Invitation only.” Lucifer sneers.

“Oh, I won’t stay long. I am here to bring the Angel to her rightful home.” 

“Have you now?” Alastor asks, static popping and hissing, stepping forward to stand at Lucifer’s side. His pupils have flattened to radio dials. Shadows collect at his feet.

Lucifer puts a hand on Alastor’s arm and squeezes for him to wait. They make eye contact. Lucifer can feel his own heat with a blaze of hellfire. He turns toward Michael as his horns flay open his forehead and flicker bright with their own fire. 

“Go home, Michael. You made a long journey at no purpose. The child is Hellborn, and I rule over the Hellborn and Sinners, as decreed by powers far above you.” The Devil’s voice is deep and ancient. Smoke slips through his teeth and he flicks out his snake tongue to taste brimstone in the air.

“We did discuss contracts and orders at length, King of Hell. You would not dare tumble that house of cards with disobedience now. With so much at stake.” Michael nearly smiles. His blue eyes glitter with mirth, at least, and his lips quiver with excitement.

“I never claimed her.” Lucifer rumbles.

Michael laughs.

And laughs.

It is a sound that could cut glass. It does more than that. The windows shatter. Light bulbs and glassware bursts around them. The floor cracks beneath their feet.

The Archangel chuckles, “Lucifer, you simple fool. The right to claim is not yours. Legally, through blood right, the claim to the throne of Hell would be hers. You were graciously permitted a sole heir. It is no fault of ours your perverse need to breed has endangered your young. Silly, stupid fool. Did you think your error so simply corrected?”

No, he never did think it so simple. It was one of those unanswered prayers for something, anything, to be simple in his eternity. A fairytale he allowed Alastor and Charlie to believe in. Let them sleep peacefully and perhaps there will be peace when they wake.

Alastor steps forward, his frame and form trembling to burst upwards and outwards, and Lucifer barely holds him back. He thrums a bit of his power through his fist to restrain the Radio Demon. Shadows spilled around them, licking at their boots and clawing at their ankles. 

“She’s mine.” Alastor hisses. 

His antlers are past his broad shoulders and his long, sharp face distorts in his rage.

Lucifer shoves him backwards with force and barely clocks when Charlie takes Alastor by the shoulders to restrain him with her own half-divine strength.

“Your taste, as usual, is suspect, Brother dear. Let us pray that nurture may overcome nature. We are all created in His image, some more than others. She may yet be saved.” Michael’s cold mask has returned. He clears his throat and holds up a scroll.

A pause for dramatic effect.

As if this whole event weren't dramatic enough.

Michael bows his head and lets the scroll unravel.

Angelic script. Invisible to all but the highest order of His creations. Golden and shining with divinity and exuding such power that Lucifer nearly has to turn his head. 

“This Order from the High Court of Heaven demands the Angel Marie Lenore Morningstar be taken immediately into the custody of Heavenly Host and held in divine care until such time that the High Court make the Final Decision on the best interests of the Angel, for her care, safety, and future.” Michael reads, not once looking down at the scroll.

“No.” Lucifer growls with the voice pulled from the depths of the pits. 

More cracks spider across the floor. Flames flick out from the foundation below. The lights, so bright and divine since the Archangel’s arrival, dim to blood red. Lucifer’s wings shoot out to their full span, blocking the fragile Sinners, fallen angel, and half-angel behind him. It casts Michael in his shadow. The outline of the Devil overwhelms the Archangel’s figure.

“You have no right to her!” Alastor shouts.

And, Father Above, can the motherfucker just shut the fuck up for two seconds?!

It draws Michael attention from Lucifer - showboating for his life here - and to the tall as fuck idiot who can’t be hidden even with a seraphim’s wings.

“Do you have that right, Sinner?” Michael asks, amused again.

“She’s mine.” Alastor’s voice distorts in his rage.

Michael smirks and taps the scroll.

A light shines from the center, projecting a screen in the center of the room. A wavy, echo-ey image of Angel Dust appears.

“Alastor is literally da worst fuckin’ guy in Hell to be a mom. He jus’ wants ‘er cause he saw Charlie was doin’ good. He jus’ gets off on others hurting, ya know? He’s a literal cannibal! Already said he’d eat her-” 

“No, no that’s not-” The current Angel Dust interrupts frantically.

The image shifts to Husk.

“Fuck.” The Bartender curses.

“Boss can’t care. Just can’t. Not his nature. He’ll get bored and move on.”

Vaggie wavy face comes into focus.

“Fuck, Charlie, there is no way Alastor is going to change. He’s an Overlord. You saw how he was. He said he didn’t want her!”

Charlie’s face replaces her partner’s.

“It would be better, I guess, if she was raised knowing she is loved. Wow. He really doesn’t want her. I mean…I knew who he was when we met. The Radio Demon… ”

Then Alastor’s own image.

“I’m not going to nurture it. I’m not going to mother it.”

Michael taps the scroll again and the screen dissolves.

“There is plenty more. Shall we continue? Perhaps hear her own father’s opinion of the one they call The Radio Demon. Cannibal. Murderer. Abomination. Unworthy to call himself mother to a child of divine grace.”

“That’s not true. None of it is true.” Charlie steps around Lucifer’s wingspan.

“Your own words, Princess.” Michael gives the impression of a shrug without breaking his statuesque poise. 

“Ignorant. Uninformed. Wrong.” Charlie’s own demonic form is on full display now. 

The green glow is gone from her eyes. 

When she attacks the Archangel in defense of her sister and her friend, the decision is all her own.

Lucifer freezes. 

There are too many contracts restricting his involvement. Charlie threw the first punch. Michael has an Order signed by a magistrate of Heaven’s High Court, allowing him entry into Hell. If Lucifer…if he interferes…it all could tumble like the house of cards Michael so accurately described. Lenore and Charlie taken from him. Lucifer taken from Hell. The end of Hell. Too many possibilities, too many unknowns.

Fuck ‘em.

This is Lucifer’s domain.

Charlie gets in a good hit before she is flung into the bar by the Exorcist Lucifer vaguely recognizes from the Final Battle. Adam’s right hand woman. It isn’t more than a moment before Vaggie, hair tied back, is on the Exorcist, dueling with angelic weapons. 

A dozen more exorcists fly through the doors and engage in combat with the hotel warriors. 

Alastor springs into action, tendrils and voodoo flying wild, radio screeches and screams deafening them all. He reaches Michael at the same time Lucifer does, wielding his shadows without restraint. 

But Michael wields his infamous sword. 

TING!

It rings out when it connects with Lucifer’s cane. He sends a wave of hellfire down the length and it wraps around the holy light emitted from the sword. The two forces repel and shoot fire across the lobby, catching on the curtains. Holy light tears apart the walls of shadows Alastor sends his way.

The Devil grabs a shadow tendril and laces it with hellfire. 

It connects with the holy sword and the explosion it creates launches Alastor backwards. He catches himself in his own shadows and sends a battalion of shadow minions at Michael. The Devil throws a hellfire-ball at the Archangel, and the sword connects and sends it skyward like a homerun hit. The Radio Demon trips Michael with a whip of glowing green power. Shadow minions climb over the Archangel, giggling frantically, and bounce on his back. Little shadow shoe prints mar the pristine white coat.

Lucifer takes the moment to breathe and assess the fight around him. A bullet whizzes past his cheeks and he hears Angel’s battlecry amidst several explosions. The Cyclops - Cherri, yes, Cherri - flips through the air as she bowls two bombs into unsuspecting exorcists.

Lucifer watches with horror as a spear narrowly misses Charlie’s neck, only stopped by a last minute swipe of a sliver of a shadow tendril. The Exorcist turns her attention to the Radio Demon, a monstrous thing now, long limbs and mania. Her sword cuts neatly through the shadows. The Radio Demon shrieks feedback and staticky bloodcurdling screams. He lifts his microphone and sends voodoo symbols at the Exorcist. They sizzle when they make contact with the Exorcist’s chest.

Husk’s back connects with a pillar as he is flung clear across the lobby.

Angel Dust is backed against the elevator by two exorcists, spears pointed at his stomach. He frantically presses the button to open the doors.

The Archangel is brushing off his suitcoat and lifting his sword again, aiming at the unsuspecting Radio Demon’s back. 

The Devil launches himself at the Archangel, slamming into him with the power of a seraphim, and lifts him high into the air so they battle above the chaos.

The main chandelier falls to the floor as the Devil’s tail slices through the cord.

“Enough. Or it’s over.” Micheal says calmly, holding up a hand.

The chaos stops below them. Even Alastor has shrunk back to his original packaging. The elevator dings open but the Spider Demon lets it close again, eyes streaming. Husk groans from beneath the body of an unconscious exorcist and several pounds of rubble.

The Exorcist, Adam’s dog, leads Charlie by the arm to Michael, golden pistol aimed at her back and a knife against her throat. Vaggie whimpers from the floor, a pool of blood spreading from beneath her middle. 

“Let her go.” Lucifer commands the minute his feet hit the broken ground. Smoke steams from his mouth and ears. Hellfire twitches between his fingers.

“Contracts. Contracts. Contracts.” Michael chants, placing the inflection at a different point with each word.

The Devil huffs out another warning rumble and it shakes the hotel.

“Careful, King of Hell. You’ve already stepped off the line. One heir. That was the allowance. One. You made the deal. You signed the contract. You. Now the deal is broken, and we shall show the Princess Our mercy. One heir, King of Hell.”

Charlie’s breath quickens and the movement causes the knife to graze her neck. A line of dark blood trickles down her throat.

“Stop! Michael, stop her!” Lucifer feels the hellfire and rage dissolve into nothing as icey fear overtakes his veins.

“The Angel.” Michael demands. 

“She’s my daughter. Michael. Please. Please, let her go.”

The Exorcist makes a show of moving the pistol to Charlie’s temple.

“I can’t choose-” 

“Lenore must be unharmed.” Alastor interrupts from Lucifer’s side. 

“Alastor.” Lucifer whispers.

Alastor does not look away from the Archangel.

“I hand over Lenore. Charlie is released. Lenore is unharmed. We are allowed the final hearing to state our case to a neutral court that we should retain custody of Lenore.” Alastor’s voice is level but so thick with static that Lucifer can feel the buzz of his words in the air.

Michael nods and holds out his arms.

Alastor lets out a long, steady breath and taps his microphone against the floor. The air around them shimmers and shadows gather from each corner and crevice of the broken lobby to form a nearly perfect circle in front of him. The microphone pops out of existence. 

Alastor reaches into the darkness and pulls out Lenore. She wails angrily and thrashes towards her mother. Alastor shares the briefest glance with Lucifer, his strained cheshire smile never changing, and the message passed loud and clear.

Lenore cries louder when the Archangel takes her into his glowing arms.

Alastor turns away.

The Exorcist pushes Charlie towards Lucifer, and she falls on her knees, clutching her necks as she screams out Lenore’s name. A portal opens above their heads. Michael’s golden wings flap once and he soars vertically up. The Exorcist’s follow. With a beat of his own wings, so does Lucifer.

The Devil grabs the wings of the nearest Exorcist and tears them clean off. He does the same to two more. The others, realizing the attack, stab at his own wings, his body, anywhere. He sends hellfire to engulf one and rips out the throat of another. 

Let them fall.

It builds character.

Heaven’s gates are just as pristine and perfectly plastic as always. Pillowy clouds, clean pavements, angelic music floating around them. The line to get in is short. Ha, needs a better marketing department. Lucifer has been saying it for years. 

“Lucifer.” 

“Sera.”

The Seraphim frowns at him, eyebrows raised. He must be a sight, in full demonic form and covered in golden blood.  

“What is the meaning of this?” She asks. Calm. They are always so fucking calm. Not an ounce of emotion in the whole heavenly host.

“You took my daughter. A princess of Hell. An heir to my throne. Hellborn. Mine. You must have known I’d fight.” He growls.

“We what?” Sera blinks and, oh look, an emotion. Shock.

“Beneath you, Sera. Lower courts. Destination of souls, and all that.” Michael says as he strolls through the gates, locking them behind him and twirling the key around his finger before it bursts into glitter.

“Diplomacy with Hell is designated by the seraphim. Sera, specifically. Father is a stickler for following the order of things. You had no right to go behind the back of a seraphim.” Lucifer contradicts smoothly.

“Do not dare speak of the Holy Father!” Michael hisses, his lovely features distorting in his sudden burst of anger.

Sera shifts her gaze between the Devil and the Archangel.

“Did you take the Angel, Prince Michael?” She asks.

Michael, calm once more, pulls out the scroll from the inner pocket of his suitcoat. Sera takes it when it is offered. Her purple, crystal clear eyes scan the document. A hundred more appear in her locks of hair as she read. Her frown deepens.

“If Heaven wants a war, Hell will prepare its army.” Lucifer promises.

Sera holds up her hand. “Prince Michael is correct that angels have long called Heaven their home. Angels, absent a fall, are under the jurisdiction of Heaven. A being of divine grace and purpose may not be condemned to suffer without sin. Those few angels in Hell have chosen their expulsion.” 

“She is Hellborn! Charlie-”

“But the Angel is Hellborn, and that is your jurisdiction.”

“Her mother is a Sinner! She is half-Sinner!” Lucifer shouts.

“Human. She is half human. Sinner is a classification of demons. Hellborn, Sinner, Ars Goetia, Sins. But I see no evidence of a demonic nature. So, she is human in origin as are all angels.”

“So are Sinners.”

Sera sighs.

“Alastor would never hurt her, Sera. He loves her. I love her. We are her parents. She belongs with us. You fought for us once. For me, once. Come on, Sera.”

The Seraphim stares long and hard at Lucifer. Her hundred eyes do not blink. Perhaps she can remember the seraphim he once was, and how they created the universe together, how they trusted and loved. 

Once.

But maybe not.

“I could call in the Clause. End all negotiations. Or I bring a war. Maybe both. Keep her and I promise Heaven will pay.” Lucifer threatens.

Sera stiffens and gives a jerky nod. “The Angel shall return to Hell until the time the Heavenly Court convenes to decide the issue of custody of a being of angelic grace. So long as the King of Hell agrees to accept the Court’s ruling without fight or retribution. Negotiations on the remaining contracts shall continue without effect.” Her tone brooks no argument.

Michael nearly snaps his neck as he turns to the Seraphim. “I have an Order!” He argues.

“And I have the Final Word!” Sera snaps back. “I seek to avoid Holy War. I instructed you to wait. Now, King of Hell, what say you?"

Locked out of Heaven, out of arguments, and on the back foot, Lucifer doesn’t really have a choice.

Chapter 19

Lucifer taps his boot against the spun sugar cloud underfoot. It mutes the sound, and there is reason number twelve hundred and eight on why Heaven sucks. A guy can’t even communicate how complete pissed off he is by stamping his foot against solid ground. 

“So, Peter, my man, any new news way up here?” Lucifer asks, to pass the time.

The poor little angel nearly wets himself.

“Uh, no, Luci-King Lucifer, Your Dark Excellency, Ruler of the Damned-”

“Yeah, Lucifer is fine, Petey.”

St. Peter dabs his brow with a crisp white handkerchief and then rings it between his hands. His blue eyes dart left to right, probably looking for a new winner to chat with. Hopefully he has stopped the singing introduction. Talk about a way to regret one’s life choices! Sure, Hell has its own challenges for new sinners, but imagine a flash mob five minutes after croaking? Ick, not the mood.

Besides, a bit of brimstone is good for the lungs. Bet they can’t say the same about…clean air.

“I-I’m sure they will be bringing the Angel soon…if you would like to wait, perhaps, over there.”

“Here is good.”

“Of course it is. K- Lucifer.”

Lucifer rubs his upper arms a bit and shivers. Wow, it really is fucking freezing up here. At least Heaven itself has the golden glow of the Father’s love. But the outer gates are nearly in the atmosphere. Upon closer review, Lucifer notices the clouds glitter with millions of ice crystals. 

“Chilly today.” He says casually.

St. Peter furrows his brow. “Is it?” He asks.

“Yeah. Those robes must be fur lined.”

“No. Standard issue.”

“If I freeze my balls off it’ll solve one problem at least, huh?”

“Gracious me!” St. Peter looks truly miserable.

Good.

“Ever think of having kids, Petey?” Lucifer asks, enjoying himself too much.

“Uh, no. My post is very fulfilling, as my life and death were before it.”

Sure, that’s what all the winners say. Fucking martyrs. It’s not a sacrifice if you immediately get paradise.

“No little angel wings in your future then?”

“Well, yes there are. Naturally. I greet and arrange accommodations for all who pass through Heaven’s gate. The majority are children, you see. Blessed little souls, innocent and good, to be forever young and pure. A blessing to pass through Heaven’s Gate before temptation drags them dooow- oooohh, no! Uhhh, I apologize for my rudeness!” St. Peter exclaims, clapping a hand over his mouth

“Damn, St. Peter Pan! Dude, that’s a whole new level of fucked up! Wow, and I thought I had a morbid view of things. Wanting kids to die though-”

“No, no, that is not-”

“-just so they never have a chance to live and make mistakes. Fucking Hell, man!” 

“Oh Sweet Jesus help me!”

“Unless that’s the name of your therapist, might want to dial another number there bud.”

Maybe St. Peter Pan did have J.C. on speed dial, because it was at that moment Gabriel approached. He smiles warmly at Lucifer, apparently not noticing the golden bloodstains and torn up clothes. The King of Hell’s demonic form has faded away, leaving a sharp-toothed and dirty angel behind.

“Brother! I’m happy to see you are well. You left so suddenly, before.” Gabriel greets him with the same easy warmth as last time.

Lucifer holds back on the urge to wipe that sleepy smile from that pretty boy face. Gabriel might have been Lucifer's favorite brother, but Gabriel had always been Michael’s right hand man. Raph did the numbers, Michael made the plan, Gabriel provided the muscle. There was not a pie in Heaven that Gabriel had not stuck his finger in. Which, unhygienic as fuck, by the way. Really a terrible analogy all around.

“Cut the crap, Gabriel. Where’s my daughter?” 

Gabriel’s laughing mouth turns down at Lucifer’s rough, growling tone. Those angelic ears are so used to pure, crystal clear and feather soft notes. Time to broaden their experience. Wrath and darkness have their own place in art and beauty. Heaven never realizes that. There is no light without darkness, there is no virtue without a bit of sin, no saints without sinners. 

Humankind may not have created that divide but they made damn sure they perfected it.

The Archangel nods and steps aside to reveal…

“Lillith?” Lucifer asks, stunned.

There she is. 

Nearly a decade later, not a bit of her beauty has faded. Her beauty is eternal. No, she is more beautiful than ever, with the glow of Heaven in her blonde hair. She is dressed in white and gold. A Roman Empress. A Greek Goddess. 

A complete and total epic bitch.

“What the Hell, Lil? You ran away to Heaven? What about Charlie?” 

Lillith has the grace to bow her head. “You’re upset with me. You would be. But you don’t know...Luci, the end of Hell is near. I have been working to save our daughter, to save you.” She drops to her knees and reaches out her arms, as if to hold Lucifer. She stops at the look on his face. “Lucifer, my love, we knew the end would come. The prophecies. The readings. Earth is in turmoil. Hell is on the brink of collapse-”

“How would you know? You left us.” Lucifer knows he is pouting, but he can’t control his features with so much happening in front of him.

“Leave the Angel here, my love. I’ve spoken with your brothers. Let the Angel stay here, safe in paradise, and they will let our Charlotte come here too. Sisters together. Safe with her family.”

A manic laugh bubbles up his throat. “Family? Lenore’s mother and father will be in Hell. Charlie’s partner and friends are in Hell. I am in Hell.” He rubs his cheeks in a vain hope the friction will spark some brain cells to deal with this mind fuck.

Lillith takes his hands away from his face. “Call in the Clause, Lucifer, my love. Come home to Heaven. Rejoin the Heavenly Host. Take your place among the Seraphim. Come back to the garden with me. You, me, and our children, our Charlotte and our little Lenore.” She pulls him into her embrace. It is warm and comfortable pressed against her breasts, the fabric of her dress against his bruised and aching body.

Lucifer pushes her away.

“Where is my daughter, Lillith?” He asks. 

“Lucifer.” The warmth evaporates from her voice. “Hell is coming to an end. Humankind will be extinct soon. No more Sinners to lead. No more Hell to manage. Hell will be gone. Charlotte can’t be there for the end. The Angel will stay.”

Piercing, echoing screams alert him to Lenore’s presence. Her face is splotchy gold around her red cheeks. Tears and snot course down her face in tracks. She beats her little fists in the air and her foot gets Michael in the stomach as she kicks with all the strength in her tiny body. 

That’s my girl, Lucifer thinks with pride.

“Take the offer, Samael.” Gabriel advises. Lucifer had almost forgotten him in Lillith’s presence. But his brother is there, brow furrowed, eyes burning with a desperate plea. “Come home, Brother. It has been too long. You have suffered enough.”

“Hell will fall without me.” Lucifer hisses. “You know that. It will fall. All those souls will be lost. The Hellborn. The Sovereign Sins. Millions of souls. Billions of lives lost.  You ask me to sacrifice them for myself?”

Lilith grabs a fistful of the collar of his ruined coat. “I ask you to save our daughter.” She snaps.

“And she would never forgive me for failing our people.”

“Your people?” Gabriel asks, incredulous. “Murderers. Psychopaths. Sadists. Degenerates.”

“ My people. The broken and the lost, the forgotten and the betrayed, the flawed and the fallen. My people. Now give me my daughter, you judgmental shits. Her mother will be missing her.”

He holds out his arms.

Michael takes three intentional steps to the King of Hell and scoffs as he hands over the sobbing child.

“Shh, Lenore, it’s okay. I’m here. Your daddy is here.” He whispers and puts his forehead to hers. 

She gulps more sobs, complaining loudly of her mistreatment in wails and screams. 

“You will regret this, Lucifer.” Gabriel promises, stepping forward, in front of Michael, his superior. “Your sins will finally catch up with you. And you will regret refusing salvation.”

And then sends Lucifer back down the Hell with a rough shove.

It takes a terrible few hundred feet before Lucifer accepts the fact that wings still don’t work in a fall from Heaven’s grace. He uses them instead to circle protectively around Lenore. She has stopped crying, no doubt shocked by the wind and swirling colors of the atmosphere, clouds and starlight. 

Fuck fuck fuck, fuckedity fuck. 

The first fall wasn’t too bad. Sure, he could not move for days. His blood created the first burning lake in Hell. His wings were shattered for several hundred years. But he survived. 

Now he had Lenore and that…no, she was too little, even with her angelic blood, to fall. No other angel had literally fallen as Lucifer had. It was a label only for angels like Vaggie and the Sins. 

“Close your eyes, sweetie, don’t look.” Lucifer shouts, clutching her tight against his chest. 

He can do this. If he cocoons her in his wings, lands on his back, absorbs the shock, she could be okay. Maybe they can aim for a giant feather cushion. Or a pit of foam blocks. Yeah, sure, and maybe Lucifer should invite his brothers to Sinsmas dinner next year.

The air gets warmer.

Close now.

“Hold on to daddy, Lenore. It’s gonna be okay. I’ll make sure you're okay.”

The light turns red.

He pulls his wings down over the baby and pinches his eyes shut as the ground comes up to meet them.

Lucifer doesn’t land so much as stops falling. It is the oddest feeling of suspension while standing on a cloud. He folds his wings away. It is pitch black. His eyes blink and he finds that this world is brighter behind his eyelids. 

When he looks down, Lenore’s eyes give off a soft blue glow, just barely lighting their way. Her outline is smeared, as if she is drawn in gray chalk and then the sleeve of the artist dragged over the image. Lucifer can barely see his own arms around her, colored with an even darker shade and nearly erased.

Lenore lets out a whimper. The world around them grabs the sound and stretches it. Frightened, the little girl cries out more sharply. The sound swirls around them in a tempest. Sharp, echoing, ringing out dissonant and terrible.

“Shhh,” Lucifer soothes, drawing her even closer to him. “Daddy’s here. Daddy’s here, Lenore. Daddy’s got you. I won’t let you go.”

She nuzzles against his chest. He can feel her tiny fists grab and twist his shirt. He can feel her her body move with each breath, quick but starting to calm. Her curls tickle his face when he dips his head to kiss hers. 

It’s so dark.

And Lucifer realizes he is frightened.

Little known fact, but Heaven never goes dark. Even at the beginning of it all, there was light. It was literally the first task God checked off the list. Let there be light. And there was. Then Lucifer was the Morningstar, and he gathered that light into bright supernovas and galaxies. He and his siblings carved out the universe, painting in shades of light and dark but never allowing the world to dim.

Then he fell.

And there still wasn’t dark. Endless dark. Vast over-statement. Pfft, more like an endless red glow of primordial magma and hellfire flames. Sure, it was dark but it wasn’t endless or complete. This, this dark, is suffocating. It pushes up against his skin and fills every crack and cranny, every intake of breath, twitch of his fingers. 

There is no sound.

No hint of what is near or far. It could be nothing. But it could be anything.

Fuck, not the time to find out that Lucifer, the Devil, King of Hell and Ruler of the so-called Endless Dark, is scared of the dark.

Deep breaths. In and out. In and out. He has to be strong. Lenore needs him to be brave for her. 

“It’s okay. Daddy will figure this out.” He whispers, more for himself than for the baby’s benefit.

Movement.

A shadow.

A shadow…in the dark? 

No…

…but, yeah…that’s what it is. A shadow against the dark. Just a shade brighter than its surroundings, but a shadow nonetheless. There, maybe a dozen yards away, is the distinct shape of a small person. It looks around, searching in the darkness. Its hand reaches up and swipes the air, as if pushing aside a curtain. It is running.

Lucifer follows at a brisk walk, palms pressed tight against Lenore’s head and back. 

It - a child, he can see now - looks around and doubles back, running past Lucifer.

“Hey!” He calls out.

The shadow child hugs its middle and drops to the ground in a small ball. Echoes of weeping float on the still air, as if a wind carried and muffled them. 

“Maman!”

Lucifer kneels down. “Hey, little guy. Don’t be scared.” He whispers.

“I want my maman!” The shadow child cries, barely heard in the suffocating darkness.

“In the name of the Father, in the name of the Son, in the name of the Holy Ghost!”

Lucifer whips his head towards the new voice, a stronger one, the pitched tones of a juvenile male. The Shadow is standing with its feet wide, moving as if he is shaking a bottle up, and then throws it to the ground. The explosion of glass is in sound only, but it is deafening in its clarity after so much dampened noise.

“Dismiss this man from this place!” The Shadow commands. 

Green sigils light up around its feet and confirm in a brief flash of light that the Shadow is indeed a young boy, a teenager perhaps, but barely one at that. 

“No, no!” Lucifer walks to the teen. “I’m not trying to-”

But the green light has gone out and the Shadow Teen is gone.

The echo of a laugh zooms around him, and Lucifer whips around again to see another Shadow Child, reaching up with arms and legs. Climbing the outline of a tree. The Shadow Child sits on a branch, legs swinging, and laughter bubbles up around them.

Lucifer starts to walk toward it but his path is blocked by a taller shadow, the skirts of her dress fading into the darkness as they swish around her. The Shadow Woman holds up her arms.

“Alastor! Mon coeur!”   

“Maman!”

“Alastor?” Lucifer whispers, but the Shadows have already disappeared. 

An upbeat piano song replaces the last echoes of the Shadow Child’s - Alastor’s - laughter. 

Lenore starts to babble and whine with urgency, attempting to fling herself out of Lucifer’s arms. It is immediately obvious why. The outline of Alastor, the one Lucifer knows, the one Lenore recognizes as her mother, antlers and deer ears and sharp angles galore, sits at a piano, his fingers flying across the keys. 

Shadow Alastor disappears to their dismay, but the song continues behind them. Another Shadow, a human man, plays on with the same grace and poise. Even as an outline, Lucifer recognizes that sharp chin and broad shoulders. 

“Alastor!” He calls out.

Shadow Alastor - demonic form - runs in front of Human Shadow Alastor. He twirls his microphone and bright green sigils twirl out, alighting both Human and Demon forms. Lenore sobs harder. Piano songs and baby wails are joined by the recognizable sounds of battle, power zipping and zapping, the sound of connections and whistling misses.

“Salutations! Good to be back on the air!” Alastor’s radio voice echoes. 

Lucifer spins in a circle. All the Alastors, Demon and Human, have faded back into the darkness. All noise is gone, even Lenore’s cries. 

Then panting, harsh breathing, the echoes of feet pounding against the ground.

Dogs barking.

Lucifer watches in horror as Shadow Human Alastor runs several yards in front of them. Shadow Dogs take him down, jaws snapping and heads shaking as they grab hold, tearing into the man, his cries traveling on the non-existent wind to Lucifer’s ears.

“No no no! Stop! Ahh-ahh!”

“Alastor!”

“Enough of that, I think.” A deep voice says from his right. 

A man. Not a shadow, not an outline of faded chalk. A man in living color gestures that Lucifer looks away from the awful scene before them. He is dressed in an odd mix of clothing, crisp white shirt with a tight purple vest, too short pants that reveal purple socks, a battered top hat with several feathers stuck in as decoration.

“That one don’t have a happy ending, I’m afraid. Best you see somethin’ important, whilst you’re here. Come on, King of Hell. You and the little miss don’ got much time.” The Man puts a hand on Lucifer’s shoulder and it is the first solid thing he’s felt in this horrid dark place. 

They walk, he thinks. He doesn’t know if his legs actually move. 

They stop.

“Where-” 

The Man is gone.

Of course he is. 

“Ahh, one of mine.”  

The voice is clear and deep, undeniably feminine despite the brassy undertone. It belongs to a collection of shadowy shapes with a glowing turquoise backlight. They may form a woman as a whole, but just as easily they fall apart when looked at straight on and are nothing but individual lines and shapes.

“I’ve come for one of yours, Mistress of Darkness.” Shadow (Demon) Alastor says, radio overlay thick, distorting his usual crystal dictation.

“Radio Demon, Voodoo Man, Overlord, Shadow Child. Welcome home, Alastor.” Laughter is thick in her words, mocking his title, delighted with the next, belittling another, savoring the last. 

Shadow Alastor cocks his head harsh to the side. Lucifer can hear the crack as a memory. The child in his arms whimpers again in recognition, wiggling to go to the mother that she can’t understand is not really there.

“My reputation precedes me!” Shadow Alastor exclaims. “I come to make a deal, Madam. An exchange. Choose any number of the souls in my keeping and in exchange-”

The turquoise lined shadow tendrils charge at Shadow Alastor, capturing his arms and slithering up his legs.

“No one finds their way out of the darkness, Child of Mine, Sweet Shadow. Souls are turned from the gates and here they find a home. Home. You are home, Mon Couer. Send away those Hellsoaked souls of Sinners and come home to me, Alastor, my child.”

“I am a Sinner, an Overlord, to be precise.” Shadow Alastor grits out, fighting the tendrils. His own green lined tendrils attempt to wrestle him free. “I am Hellsoaked. I am condemned to serve an eternity in Hell for my sins.”

“Mmm, perhaps. Yet there is darkness twisted in your sins, Sweet Shadow. How deep does the darkness go in your pitiful soul, I wonder?”

The tendrils wrap around Shadow Alastor in ribbons, mummifying him. They twist and pull apart, leaving empty pitch black in their wake. 

The Shadow Woman turns to face Lucifer directly and she smiles, teeth sharp and dripping glowing red blood. With one long finger, she beckons him forward. The shapes of her form start to melt together, providing clarity to her image, and she is so familiar…

Lucifer nearly jumps out of his skin when two strong arms grab him round his waist and pull him backwards through a wind tunnel, dragging him farther into the darkness and away from any memory of light.

“Shh, Lucifer, you’re back. Open your eyes.” 

When Lucifer obeys, he sees Alastor - the real Alastor - is holding him, eyes glowing crimson in the dark shadows of the bayou. Lucifer chokes out a sob and grips the demon around the middle, causing the child still in his arms to squeak in alarm. He lightens his hold to give her room to arrange herself more comfortably between them. 

Alastor tightens his own hold on them both.

“Oh, I have you, my child, mon couer. My Lenore. Never again, mon petite ange, my darling, my Lenore, never will they get their thieving hands on you again. I’ll destroy them. I’ll shred them to bits before they ever touch you again. I’ll devour them. Oh, Lucifer… Lucifer…”

“Yeah, I know, Al, I know.”

They stay in the solitude of the bayou for a while. Lucifer stays even when Lenore insists on eating. Alastor does not command him to leave - just opens his shirt and cradles the child to his chest, the softest groan of relief slipping from his lips. Lucifer puts a hand to the back of Lenore’s head and twirls her curls around his fingers. One of her little hands reaches out and he offers her a finger to take in her grasp. She shakes it. He plants on a kiss on her knuckles.

Alastor hums a chuckle.

And Lucifer lets himself fall into the false - how can it be any other way? After all this time of falsehoods and illusions? - confidence that everything will be okay.

At least he has no regrets.

Chapter 20

The Radio Demon stares at space holding the golden portal well after it has closed and faded away. His stations are going haywire in his aching brain. Static presses against the soft membrane. Spikes of electricity penetrate the sensitive synapses and send electrical impulses to every nerve ending in his tortured body. His limbs are frozen with overactivity, shock, and the heavy weight of ichor in his veins.

Gone.

She’s gone.

The buzzing in his ears overwhelms his hearing. Charlie - a thin necklace of blood dripping onto her collar - mouths some useless nonsense. Likely a meaningless reassurance. Or some sentimental hogwash. The Radio Demon wants none of it. He let his child go. For a princess. 

Gone.

Heaven always wins. That’s what Lucifer told him. That’s what She told him. Heaven will last after the stars fall, even as Hell goes dark. He thought to circumvent that. A bit of scheming. A favor. The Princess in his palm. A favor for Her. The Princess in Her palm. Keep the stars alight. The Second Star to the right and on to Morning. That’s what she said. Sang. She sang and sang and sang. She stole the radio waves. The music died in the darkness. No, no, Alastor circumvented it! Alastor outwitted Heaven. Outwitted Her. A Shining Morningstar. A Deal for a favor. A favor for the Deal. Another deal to keep Lenore safe, so long as the Princess was safe. Deals tangled together. Lenore would be safe, if Charlie was safe. So many were pledged, or at least had a self-interest, to keep Charlie, the Heir, the Princess of Hell, safe - the Sins, the Ars Goetia, the Sinners of the Hazbin Hotel, the Hellborn, the King. If Charlie was safe, Lenore would be safe. Hell would protect Charlie. Charlie would protect Lenore. Hell would protect Charlie. And Charlie would protect her. He would protect Charlie, Charlie would protect her, She would protect her, Alastor would protect her, Charlie would protect her. If Charlie was safe, Lenore would be safe. If Charlie was safe, she would be safe. She would be safe. She would be safe. She was -

Gone.

Alastor handed over his child. Him. He agreed to it. He was obligated to meet the terms. Not Charlie. Not Lucifer. Not Hell. Just Alastor. He protected the Princess. And none of his scheming - none of them - had protected her, his child, in the end.

Gone.

Alastor’s black heart throbs as it cracks down the middle. He handed her over. His chest cavity fills with bloody, thick ichor; it is heavy on his lungs. It suffocates him. It seeps down his rib cage and sits sour in his stomach. It bubbles up his throat and pours over his gapping maw. 

Static electricity course through him.

The eldritch ichor, thick and rich, usually acting as a suppressant to Alastor’s radio-based powers, acts as a conductor. 

When Lenore had gone, when he let them take her, Alastor had fallen to his knees. Broken. His frame shakes with the power building in his veins. His mind is fuzzy and buzzing. He cannot see. His pupils are constricted to red radio dials, clicking away in a pool of black eldritch horror. His vision is only shadows. Shadows and deeper, blacker darkness. The outline of a demonic princess, crown on her head, hellfire lighting her horns, approaches him.

He snaps his jaws at her. His neck stretches to snap at an incoming spear. His teeth cut the staff clean in half. Sparks of angelic energy shoot out through his antlers and he lets out a resounding wail of sorrow and pain. His limbs snap and length, cracking at the joints, breaking and reforming, reaching out to swipe at his enemies.

DEVOUR

RIP

TEAR

DESTROY

Something slices through his arm. He whips the limb around to grab at the presumptive wretch. It connects. His fingers loop through a chain of glowing green power. His power. His chain. His soul.  

TEAR 

RIP

DEVOUR

Hellfire hits his back and knocks him off his feet.

“I know you’re hurting, Al. But you have to stop. Let Husk go. I don’t want to hurt you more.” The Princess’s voice. Miles away. 

“HuRT mE? HahaHAHaHAhAha,” The Radio Demon cackles, the laugh a horrid mixture of clashing record scratches and warble. 

Hellfire blazes in the sliver of his vision. His sight focuses enough to see Charlie’s demonic form. 

He whips a wave of shadow at her. The Princess dodges. The Radio Demon screeches. Piercing, wailing, slicing through sensitive eardrums and rumbling the stones and shards of glass on the ground. Ichor drips down his front like a faucet. The Princess grabs a wrist with both hands.

The Radio Demon sends a bolt of static through her.

Extinguish the light. Let the stars fall. Let the world fall and let Her rise. Let the world end.

“Alastor!”

Alastor!

Alastor!

Alaaaaaaastor, Alastoooooooor, Alassssssssstor. Come out to plaaaaaaay!

No no, Mon Coeur! The sun is too bright today. You must stay inside. Your poor complexion. Mind your complexion. Better to be hidden than show your sins.

Dress nice! Smile more! Clean hands!

Oh, Alastor, your hands! My god, look at your hands!

Pull it together, Alastor. 

Protect.

Gone.

Gone.

Gone.

Lenore flying up into the sky. Angels belong in Heaven. Alastor belongs in Hell. Angels and demons, sinners and winners, up and down.

Protect.

His mother lies in the dirt. Alastor could not protect her. He grabs handfuls of damp earth and throws it in the grave. His fingernails are torn and bleeding. He throws it another handful. It lands on his mother’s face. It gets in her mouth, open in a forever scream.

Alastor jumps into the grave.

Lenore screams for him as she flies away in the arms of an archangel.

Charlie screams in Alastor's face, calling him back to reality, forcing him to face the fact that his child is gone and he let her go.

Gone.

The Radio Demon pulls shadows over to cover his skin. They are cool against his hot skin. The static charge that covers his distorted body sizzles blue and green in the darkness. Hide. Mind your complexion. People will talk. People are talking. Smile! Smile, mon coeur, let me see your smile. Let them see you smile! Just a smile. Just a smile.

Shadow grows large on the wall behind the Radio Demon, smile large and crimson.

It pulls its master into the shadows with it

---

Alastor holds his daughter and the King of Hell tight against his aching chest. He can hear his own ragged breathing in the odd stillness of the bayou. Static coats his tongue and he can faintly see electric shocks light the air as he exhales. Lucifer’s blonde and white hair turns a light blue between the static shock and Lenore’s wide eyes. 

She is safe.

Safe. 

He found them in the Shadows before She could get them.

He put his trust in Lucifer. Precisely what he had warned himself against. He put his trust in the Devil.

And here Lenore is. Safe at home, returned to him within hours, whole and unscathed.

Lucifer had sat with them for a long while after Alastor found them in the shadows. The King, clothes torn, face filthy with soot and dried golden blood, his wings out and limp behind him, had clutched onto Alastor like a lifeline. 

They both tremble around their daughter. 

Lucifer babbles about Heaven and fractured ranks, about shadows and echoes of memories. Alastor need not ask for follow up. He had been in that world of shadows for far too long, surrounded by his own mind, driven to the edge of his sanity as She whispered dark promises of power and ancient politics that his poor sinner brain could not comprehend. Or, perhaps, it was the shadows that made his mind wander even as She spoke. 

Seven years in the shadows. 

Seven years stuck with the blackest parts of his soul. Seven years teased and tortured by Her. Seven years of searching, of clawing his way back to the light, of sacrifice and negotiations. Seven years sewing his soul back together without a light to see his way.

“You wanted to make an exchange, for one of he-.” Lucifer whispers. 

Alastor claps his hand over the King’s mouth, “Do not speak of Her!” He hisses.

Lucifer, eyes wide, nods. 

Finally, the King of Hell went downstairs to check in with Charlie, his most precious princess, the center of it all.

The one Alastor protected over his own daughter.

Mustn’t let her fall! Not a shining Morningstar! All must protect and bow to childish and weak Charlie Morningstar!

Alastor lays Lenore on the bed. He untangles the gris gris ribbon from her curls. It dissolves into shadows in his palm. It had fulfilled its purpose, and more. The lessons of the bayou once more have set Alastor apart from the rest of the mediocre demon rabble.

But one step ahead is not far enough to survive.

Protect.

“Hey, Al?” Lucifer again, cleaned up, concern bursting from the seams of his royal regalia.

“Yes, Sire?” Alastor asks. He does not look away from Lenore. Her eyes are drifting shut again, a lazy smile on her cupid’s bow lips. His hand on her chest, he feels her heartbeat slows in time as she drifts into her dreams.

“Sleep tight, mon coeur.” He strokes a long finger down the side of her face and his own smile is genuine when she wrinkles her nose in displeasure at the disturbance.

“Your mother? Eh, sorry, she called you that. In the shadows. Um, but, your mother? That's who you were looking for there, right?” Lucifer has come to stand next to the bed. He too stares down at the little girl. His black lips curve too, smiles being somewhat of a contagion when lovely Lenore is around. 

Alastor stiffens. His ears flatten back on his head. “Perhaps we should call it a night, Majesty.” He says stiffly.

But the King of Hell just lifts his chin.

“You couldn’t have brought her soul here. Not to Hell. She was not condemned here.” He says, simple, matter of fact.

“No, she was condemned to be forgotten in the darkness! Well, I didn’t forget! I didn’t forget!” Alastor feels the familiar outrage building in his chest and takes three intentional breathes to settle himself. “No matter. I did not succeed, as you saw. I’ll thank you to forget and leave it be, as you had been for all these years.”

Lucifer does not shrink from the crisp staccato of Alastor’s clipped tone, or the venom he injects into the words. Instead, he takes a seat next to the demon on the bed and - with the bravery of a lion tamer sticking his head between the jaws of the beast - takes Alastor’s hand. 

“I think she must of been an amazing lady for you to give your daughter her name. And to have raised you, terror that you are, to be so resilient, and clever. You saved Charlie when I couldn't. That was quick thinking, to ask for the neutral magistrate. It’ll keep them busy. You acted when I froze. You saved them both. And...you trusted me to keep my word. To save little Lenore.” Lucifer speaks softly, and Alastor finds his white noise has lowered to match the King’s volume. 

“I had to.” Alastor says, more honestly than Lucifer knows. “And you stormed Heaven to save my child.”

Lucifer’s lip quirks higher, “The things we do for our kids, huh?” He nudges Alastor in the side with his elbow and then blushes at his own familiarity.

“Are you staying then?” Alastor asks. He is exhausted. His better judgment is terribly quiet when he is exhausted.

“Staying? Staying here?” Lucifer nearly chokes and coughs on the words. 

Alastor rolls his eyes, “I presumed you were concerned with our daughter’s well being. You may stay tonight, and tonight only, to ensure she is safe from a counterstrike in the night.” With a snap of his fingers, his soiled and torn outfit melts into red silk pajamas and Lenore - diaper changed - is outfitted in a matching onesie.

“Yeah, yeah!” Lucifer jumps up and, upon landing, is in a pair of duck patterned shorts and a well worn Lu Lu World t-shirt. “Woah, did not think storming Heaven would be how I'd get back in your bed - ha!” Then his face falls. “Not that I thought of - with you - I meant-”

Alastor pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lucifer, do be quiet.” He commands. 

“Yup, yup. Shutting up. Shutting up so much right now. G’night, Al!” Lucifer snuggles under the heavy, silken sheets.

Alastor rounds the bed to sleep on Lenore’s other side. He waves his hand and the lights turn off. “Good night, Lucifer.” He says in the darkness. 

He listens to Lenore’s soft snuffling in the quiet room and stares up at the bed curtains.

Though he does not dare turn to confirm the suspicion, he is confident Lucifer is doing the same.

---

“Isn’t he a marvel, Alastor!” His mother gushed, half drunk on red wine and her own happiness. 

Alastor hummed, “He is certainly a charmer, Maman.” 

Marie pinched her adult son’s cheek and pulled him down to her level to bestow a kiss on his. He could see the wrinkles spidering out from the creases of her eyes and corners of her lips. She painted her face with colors, and on another woman Alastor would have judged her as a harlot. On his maman, however, he knew her to be grasping at youth. 

“You be nice to him, Mon Couer! I told him you were a proper gentleman. Don’t you prove your mother to be a liar!” She smacked another kiss to his cheek. “Now, give me a smile before I turn in, and promise me you’ll see my Reggie off safe. Or, better, put him in a guest room, it is quite a ride back into town. It was such a lovely dinner, Alastor, mon couer.” 

“I will see our guest is attended to, Maman. Lottie, my dear, see that my mother makes it up to her bed. Mind your step now.”

His mother stumbled up the stairs on the elbow of the young maid, giggling like a fool over her “young, gentleman caller.”

Alastor returned to the parlor. 

The Gentleman stood, pretending to examine titles on a bookshelf. He was a fair, good looking young man. He smiled with a full set of pearly whites. His sky blues sparkled just right in the lights of the candelabra. He paid Marie, so obvious in her desire for the young man, the right amount of attention, but made sure to be aloof enough to keep her wanting. He oozed charm during their small dinner party, capturing the attention of mother and son.

He had hooked a foot around Alastor’s ankle under the table. His sky blues caught Alastor’s dark gaze as he moved that foot up and down Alastor’s shin.

“Reginald, my good man! Care to share a brandy?” Alastor grinned his own pearly whites at his gentleman caller. 

“Reggie, please, sir. Reginald is so formal. We could be so close, you and I.” The Gentleman accepted the glass with a wink.

“Ah, yes. Your suit of my mother.” Alastor pretended at ignorance. "She is quite taken with you. You met in at the charity auction, yes? The one held annually in my late grandfather's memory. Your first social event in our little society. What fortune you attended her little event. What. Fortune."

"I got a handsome pocket watch for it. Paid more than it's worth at that." The Gentleman grinned.

"Hmm, a pocket watch and a chance to ask my mother to lunch." Alastor pointed out, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, eyes never leaving the Gentleman's face.

“I had thought her kind. A very lovely woman. But then I saw you…” The Gentleman paused and stepped into Alastor’s space, chests bumping lightly together. “Forgive me, the wine goes to my head, you see. The wine…and you, sir. We could have such fun.”

Alastor stepped back. He took a drink of his brandy before levelling his gaze again at the Gentleman. “Hmm, but maybe we should not. A pretty performance. You cannot think yourself the first lackwit to prey upon my mother to get a meeting with Alastor Holloway. Well, you have me tipsy in my own parlor. There is no time like the present. Tell me, what is that get rich quick scheme you wish to sell me?”

The Gentleman blinked. 

“I- uh…”

“Go on.”

“A loan.” The Gentleman dropped the starry eyed gaze. “That’s it. I have an opportunity and I need two hundred to get my name in. I'll pay back. With interest.”

Alastor scoffed, “A loan? You seduced a woman in her sixties for two hundred dollars? You would have let me bugger you for two hundred dollars? You are an idiot. Now, get out of my house, you charlatan!” He reached for the bell to call for his man.

“I know you’re nothing more than a bastard!” The Gentleman blurted out. “Your whore of a mother told me so! Said she got fucked in the bayou and I'll bet you have family-”

Alastor’s hands went tight around the man’s neck, choking the foul, vile secrets from his lips. Sharp, manicured nails scratched at Alastor’s hands, making their desperate to stop the inevitable. Sky blues bugged out and spittle spilled down his cleft chin. 

"Blackmail? Bad luck, old pal. I react badly to blackmail."

The body slumped onto the floor. Still breathing. Merely unconscious.

Alastor sighed. He disliked being proved wrong, even if it was to his benefit in the end.

It seemed he and the Gentleman would have such fun tonight. 

---

“Oh!”

Alaster peels open crusted, sleep heavy lids. Lenore is pressed tight against him, drooling on his arm, thick curls surrounding her head like a halo. Lucifer sprawls on her other side, drooling onto his pillow, hair an equal frizzy blond mass of chaos. Both breathe in unison, soft huffs harmonizing. Lucifer snores on his inhale while Lenore snuffles hers.

Ridiculous.

Lucifer’s hand covers Lenore’s belly protectively, fingertips brushing Alastor’s chest.

“Uh, good morning!” Charlie’s voice sends a shock through Alastor’s system.

“Charlotte!” He shoots up, covering his already well covered chest with his hands, some misplaced instinct to preserve his dignity.  

Charlie - wide-eyed, slack jawed - stands at the end of the bed. No privacy in this place, really! Though, Alastor must admit, it is poor form for the facilities manager to wake in the same bed as the maintenance manager, a man who also happens to be the owner’s father. 

A man who Alastor professed to despise not two days prior.

“WhattawhoodawhataaaaaCHARLIE!” Lucifer too shoots up as if a dozen espresso shots were injected straight into his heart. “I was - uh, I was just…checking on the daily tasks for the hotel with Alastor. And Lenore! Um, I mean I was checking on Lenore. I was checking on the list with Alastor. Not Lenore. Because she’s…a…baby.”

Smooth. This was the man who seduced Alastor into bed. This is the man who tempted Eve to bite the apple. Alastor has to assume some level of divine intervention took place in at least the latter of these events. 

Lenore, losing the bookends of her peaceful rest, informs the assembled company of her own state of consciousness. 

"Good morning, Charlie." Alastor says over the screams.

Charlie beams. “Good morning! I just wanted to invite you both - well, all three of you! - to breakfast. We ordered RingDash from IHOP!” - International Hell of Pancakes - “On the hotel!"

Lucifer has the grace to smile and not point out that on the hotel meant on the King’s bill.

Charlie is quite fortunate her father is indulgent to a fault. And an idiot.

“We’ll be down in a sec, sweetie! Just gonna get Lenore’s breakfast for her. I mean, Alastor is gonna…eh, be down in a sec. Not that I…have…to…be…here. You know, I’m coming now!” Lucifer rambles. It might have passed for calm and collected had it not been interrupted by a manic giggle midway.

Lenore gave her mother a sideways look, as if questioning his prior judgment in bed partners as well.

Well, tough luck, kid. 

There had been a lot of moonshine and bad decisions all around that night.

When Alastor and Lenore do join the rest of the crew downstairs, breakfast is just finishing up. Half eaten cartons of slimy bacon and congealed eggs litter the table. Lucifer is rolling up an enormous pancake with what appears to be peanut butter, jam, syrup, gummy worms, and pudding. 

The King shoves it into his mouth whole as Alastor walks in -

and promptly begins to choke.

“Dad!” Charlie starts pounding her fist against her father’s back.

Lucifer coughs.

A half-chewed, saliva coated, rainbow colored lump drops onto the table.

“Charming.” Alastor comments, pouring himself a cup of steaming coffee with his free hand. 

“Good morning, Alastor!” Lucifer rasps out, smoothing back his hair, forgetting his hat and launching the offending thing onto the floor. “Do you want pancakes?”

Charlie gives her dad a thumbs up and an encouraging - if not confident - smile. Husk facepalms. Angel Dust snickers behind his hand. Vaggie cringes and pointedly takes a drink from her mug.

“Coffee is quite sufficient, Your Majesty.” Alastor says.

“Yeah, I’m done too.” Vaggie sets her mug down with a clunk. “We gotta lot to do today. Lobby is still in shambles. But we found some old plaster and paint in the basement, so we'll start on fixing the walls. Teambuilding stuff.” 

Angel groans and puts his feet up on the kitchen table. “Do we have to? Can’t we say itsa therapy thingymabobber and have the guests do it?” He suggests.

“That sounds like a smashing suggestion!” Alastor enthuses gleefully. He takes a long sip of his coffee. 

“Really?” Angel and Vaggie ask in unison, one hopeful and the other suspicious.

“Of course! Angel Dust volunteering himself and his fellow guests- as their representative - is quite the act of charity that will surely finally earn him redemption. Or, at least, a gold star sticker!”

“Har har.” Angel pouts, four arms crossed across his fluffy chest.

“I’ll paint!” Niffty - who had been eating her bowl of diced pancakes with a soup ladle right on the kitchen counter - volunteers. 

“Oh, Niffty, that really won’t- and she’s gone.” Charlie smacks her hand to the side of her head. “Vaggie, can you make a note-”

“Paint remover. Yup.” The Ex-Exorcist finishes with a look of exhausted acceptance of her lot in life.

Apparently this lot of idiots has forgotten the King of Hell with his powers of remedial creation, and an Overlord with enough souls in his control to have the work done in an afternoon, are sitting at the breakfast table with them

Ah well, hard work builds character! And this lot needs nothing more than a change of their characters...

Then the Spider Demon stands up, puts all four hands on the table and stares the Radio Demon down.

“Yes, my effeminate fellow?” 

“I got somethin’ ta say!” Angel announces.

Alastor releases a snippet of a dynamic orchestral piece, dramatic and loud, into the air, followed by a recording of his own voice announcing in a corny newscaster voice “BREAKING NEWS!”

“Was that actually necessary?” Vaggie asks.

Alastor’s smile is saccharine. “Vital!” He answers.

Lenore blows a spit bubble between her plump little lips.

Angel points a pink gloved finger at her, “You, toots, stop being cute fer a minute, I gotta say somethin’ to yer mom before he ruins it. Alastor,” Angel raises his large eyes to meet Alastor’s. “I’ve been a real jerk to yah these last few months. It weren’t fair to you.”

Alastor shifts on the balls of his feet.

“Really, Angel-”

“No!” Angel thumps the table, nearly knocking over Husk’s Irish coffee. “I’ve been an absolute bitch - sorry, forgot about lil’ ears - and that was on me. And it was used by those bast- those jerks to try ‘n get Lenore. What I said weren’t true. You are a good mom. I was - I am jealous. See, I died afore I could do any of that shit - ah, sorry. Again. - ahh, stuff like that. And…I’m jealous. I’m sorry. It ain’t your fault I’m down here. It’s not yours, or Valentino’s, or my dad’s, or even mine. It’s just the way it goes.”

A fat tear slides down the spider’s fluffy cheek. He wipes it away, just for it to be replaced by several more. Miss Bomb leaves her seat to hug him around the shoulders from behind. She pins Alastor down with a determined stare of her own.

Oh, Heavens, no. 

“I’m sorry too.” The Cyclops says. “I egged Angel on. I get my kicks on drama. And drugs. And drinks. And I knew Angie was trying to stay away from all that. I’m sorry for my part in the nursery bit.”

Vaggie sets down her coffee mug with a click.

Alastor nearly groans.

“Oh, hold your antlers and listen, old man. We were all jerks. We said awful things. But we all know that Heaven is wrong. We are what is best for her. Right here. They can’t have her.” Vaggie declares. She doesn’t leave her seat, but Alastor can see from the line of her shoulders and ice in her stare how she led an army of exorcists to take out Hell’s unfortunates.

Sometimes Alastor admired her, despite himself.

“Such a pretty tune! It would sound better as a quartet!” He sets down his nearly empty coffee mug to summon his staff. 

With a wave, Vaggie, Angel, Cherri, and Husker wear matching Barbershop Quartet outfits, a script in front of them. With a second thought, Alastor changes Lenore’s outfit to match. She looks quite fetching!

“All together!” He sings, holding out his microphone like a conductor’s baton.

The four - cranky and resigned - recite their lines in deadpan unison.

“We are sorry, Alastor.”

“Annnnnnnd?”

“We are so very, very sorry.”

“Annnnnnnnnnnnd?”  

“We are so so sorry for being so so idiotic.”

“Hang on, Alastor, we really shouldn’t-”

“Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnd?....Annnnnnnnd?”

Husk throws off his hat and swigs down his spiked coffee. “I ain’t saying that bullshit. Rip up my soul.” 

The Bartender is lucky Alastor does not have a cellular device on which to call that bluff.

The quartet’s wardrobes melt back into their original attire. 

“Apology not accepted!” Alastor sings. Lenore giggles against his chest at his playful antics. Drool from her bubble act is already soaking the front of her striped vest and bowtie.

“Oh, fuck you!” “Shoulda expected that.” “This place sucks.” “Come on!”

Lucifer clears his throat. 

He stands. Alastor is pleased to note the change to standing does not give the little king much difference in height. He magics away the remnants of the assortment of ingredients they all had accepted as breakfast. Though he had drawn attention to himself, the King seems reluctant to speak.

“So.” He begins. “This is kinda hard to say…when I went to get Lenore…Charlie, sweetie, your mom was there.” 

“Mom? In Heaven?” Charlie throws out a shaky hand to find the table. She guides herself into her seat. “Go on.”

Lucifer keeps his attention on his eldest daughter. “Yeah, sweetie, she was. She offered me a deal. To leave Lenore in Heaven. They’d have let you and me come there. Just us. To be a family. You and me, Lenore, and mom. Char Char, sweetie, I had to say no.” 

Charlie sniffs loudly and shakes her head, as if waking herself up from a nightmare. “Of course you did! We are a family. All of us here. Blood or not. We are a family right here. Lenore belongs here. I belong here! So do you and…why would mom go there?” She sounds upset. Her eyes are leaking. Her lip quivers. She looks so much like a hurt child that Alastor thinks he can taste her pain in the air. “Why would she leave…?”

Vaggie reaches across the table to take her partner’s hand. 

Charlie stands up and starts to pace. Her steps are shaky and she nearly stumbles on her third pass. Vaggie grabs her arm and drags the Princess into her lap. Charlie drops her head onto Vaggie’s shoulder.

Alastor fumes with rage. He had missed this part in Lucifer’s ramble last night. It had been a series of hyperventilations, hysterical sobs, at times, a mixture of ancient languages mixed with old English. This though, this, is a whole new level of - to borrow a Vagatha turn of phrase - fucked up.

But it’s Vaggie herself who lets out an angry growl, “So, Lillith thinks she can abandon Charlie without a word and she can have a happy little family at the snap of her fingers?”

“She does think a sort of apocalypse is coming. She was trying to get Charlie to Heaven."

“She tried to kidnap my child!” Alastor bursts out in a screech of a dozen clashing violins.

“She did. She would have let Hell fall to get Charlie into Heaven.” Lucifer confirms, meeting Alastor’s fiery gaze with equal anger. His jaw is set and there is steel in his voice. “When I did not accept, when I wouldn’t let Hell and all of you be destroyed, I was shoved back down. My wings don’t work round trip, you see. Lenore might have…” He doesn’t finish his thought.

But Alastor can well imagine it. “So, if they can’t have her, no one can? I’ll destroy them. I’ll take their entrails and hang them from my radio tower. I’ll suck their marrow out through a swizzle stick. I’ll tear out their teeth and shove them-”

“Okay! Okay!” Charlie - shocked out of her distress - waves her hands frantically. Her hair is fit to house rats and her nose is a fountain of snot. Alastor thinks he may have been too hasty in picturing Charlie - practically a child - on the throne of Hell.

“We got it, Smiles.” Angel adds. He puts down the donut that had been midway to his mouth.

“I already threatened war.” Lucifer assures them in a deep, harsh voice. Alastor can see shadows of hellfire flicker behind the King’s eyes. “I had to agree to abide by the Final Decision for her return. Luckily, Michael hadn’t caught the trick you snuck in, Al.”

The King’s face transforms into the playful smirk it tends to settle on. His eyes glitter with satisfaction, as if they had pulled off a marvelous bit together.

Together.

Alastor gives himself a mental shake and shrugs, returning his attention to the discussion at hand, “Words matter. Those on top never think to listen to we mere mortals. Of course, most mortals fail to as well, so it is rather a universal failure of the ignorant.” He says.

“Care to share with the class?” Vaggie asks.

“Neutral magistrate.” Alastor straightens in his seat, and nearly preens as he explains. “How, my dear, can Heaven find a soul in Heaven or Hell without an allegiance to either? If it is all so black and white, as they say?”

“But we took her back. We broke that deal.” Charlie argues.

“Al handed her over. That was all his end required. He never told me to get her back.” Lucifer says. “He just trusted I would.”

And color Alastor surprised that, for once, trust had not come back to bite him in the ass.

"You sneaky bastards!" Angel laughs in admiration.

"Angel - language around the baby!”

Lucifer winks in Alastor's direction.

Something in Alastor’s chest warms up. 

“Heheeheeheeheheeheehee blooooooooooooooood! Bathe the roaches in BLOOOOOOOOD!! TASTE THE SACRIFICE OF YOUR BRETHREN!!”

“Uh, guys, where’s Niffty?” Vaggie asks.

The group exchanges a series of shrugs.

Charlie groans, “And where’s my paint?” She leans off her girlfriend’s lap to look under the table, where said paint had once been.

“BLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!!!”

---

Lenore sprawls out in her bassinet, little arms and legs stretched at maximum capacity, and contented squeaks and snuffles of sleep compliment the nighttime noises of the bayou nearby. Alastor, on the other hand, is restless. The fear and stress of the last twenty four hours crashes onto his senses. All that pent up static energy in his brain and veins itches and scratches. 

Breathe.

In.

Gothic Country. 

In. 

Synthwave.

In.

Funeral Doom.

In.

Gospel.

Alastor growls and throws a blanket shadow over his radio. The passionate crooning of the mindless sheep muffles but perseveres. Flick. Flick. Flick. He reaches back through the shadows to switch stations. 

 

"𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅯I shall wear a crown.𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅯"

He pulls at the radio waves, stretching them out, trying to break them.

 

"𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅯I shaaaall wearrrr a crrrrooown.𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅯"

 

They snap back together, notes and lyrics thick of thieves, quick and strong.

 

"𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅯Whenit'sallover. 

When it's all over.𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅯"

 

When it is over. 

Will it ever be over? 

Piano notes bounce about the room as Alastor throws out the bouncing thoughts in his mind.

The stakes have risen impossibly higher. The pieces on the chess board shuffle. Black and white pawns switch sides. The White King absconds to Black. His Queen, not captured at all, takes his place, with White Knights and Bishops as allies, as Alastor’s rival. Their game is now a twisted version of blind chess, in which the opponents can only see their own board and players make their moves with limited information given by an umpire. But in this game, only the players in Hell are blind. Some more than others.

Neither King’s safety is paramount in this game. The little pawns in their grand game, the ‘kids,’ Lenore and Charlie, are more valuable to the Kings. Nor does Alastor fight for a crown, or a throne, or for power. Not any longer. 

Lenore.

Protect.

It cannot be denied, nor dressed as yet another avenue to power. Lenore is not a piece in Hell’s game of chess. There is no game. 

No game.

Years of scheming, fighting, climbing. Scheme half-complete. Deals and souls under his power and it is all worthless. Alastor, Radio Demon, Sovereign Overlord, tErrOR anD ToRTUre personified, is out of the game. 

Protect. 

Alastor plucks notes from the air, drawing out a glowing stave, arranges them to complement each other. A few fight his efforts, and he coaxes them into order with a tweak, staccato-ing them. Others caress his fingers and slur against their neighbors. 

The song is metallic and deep, each note singing out a haunting echo in the shadows of Alastor’s bayou. Warm, sleepy half notes fall behind, providing harmony to angry, snappish staccato’d eighth notes. 

Alastor feels the stave circle his ears as it explores as a singular, slithering being. They flick against the static charge of the melody. It wraps down his neck and around his wrists before releasing once more, more confident in their song.

 

“𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅯Fais dodo, mo l’aime mo ti chère,
Fais dodo, dodo sans douleur.
Fais dodo, mo l’aime mo ti chère,
Fais dodo, dodo sans douleur.𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅯"

 

Green fireflies loop between the bars of music. A fat, golden dragonfly keeps his distance from the dark corners of the room, landing on the tip of Alastor’s staff. His light bleeds into the microphone until the dragonfly disappears entirely. Alastor feels the flicker of charge in the palm gripping the staff.

 

"𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅯Maman gain gateaux,
Maman gain bonbons
Yé donne sa à toi,
si bébé  dodo.𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅯"

 

Alastor releases the bit of trapped Holy Light. The Golden Dragonfly flutters back into the bayou.

 

"𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅯Fais dodo, la lune dans le ciel-la
Fais dodo, li brille pour toi.
Fais dodo, la lune dans le ciel-la.
Faid dodo, dodo jist pour moi. 𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅯"

 

“Beautiful. Your power is beautiful.” Lucifer compliments from the doorway. 

“Yes, but it is always nice to have that acknowledged.” Alastor nods his head, pleased despite the buzzing anxiety in his body.

“She sleeping?”

“She is.”

“Oh, good.”

Pause.

“Sire?”

Lucifer braces his shoulders. “I have to apologize.” He declares.

Alastor sighs. 

“I have already told you that forgiveness is unachievable for you.”

“Not for that.” Lucifer says, eyes darting to the carpet. He takes a deep breath. His lips move, tracing out words silently, before he builds his courage back up to speak. “I am a fuck up.”

“Well. Well, I’m not sure I can forgive you that, Sire, as you affect so many with your ineptitude. Perhaps take that up with your maker.” Alastor grins.

Lucifer smiles back, reluctantly, “Real funny, asshole. I mean…I fuck up a lot of chances I get. It’s like I see the direction I want to go, the one to be happy, and I turn the car into oncoming traffic, and I cause a ten car pile up. No survivors.”

“Why, Lucifer, it’s almost like you're flirting!” 

“Can you shut up for a literal minute? Father Above, Alastor! I am trying to apologize for walking out that morning. You know, that morning. And saying what I said. It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t embarrassing. It was… wonderful.”

“I suppose it was for you.”

Lucifer blushes gold but he is determined to make it through. “I wasn’t lying when I said it had been a while. But it was more than a quick fuck. I liked you, Alastor. A lot. I still do. You are a complete asshole, and violent, and power hungry, and self-centered.”

“My finest qualities!” Alastor winks.

“Argh - I mean - you are everything I shouldn’t like. But I do. Like you. I think I’m so scared of you that I panicked.”

“Now I know you are flirting!”

“It’s not a joke, Al. I’m scared of what you do to me. I think of you, all the time, like all the time. You don’t see the crown, or the power, or the Devil, and bow down or try to kiss up to me. I’m not a king, to you. Hell, you mock me with my own fucking title! You challenge me. You protect my daughter, both of my daughters, at the risk to your own survival. You could have had all of Hell at your feet but you picked our girl over that. You are funny, and clever, and sweet in a spicy kinda way-”

“My Creole blood!”

“- ha ha, asshole - and you are impossible to talk to and I loved those nights when we would talk and argue and all your insults would give me butterflies in my stomach and I’m sounding like an idiot, aren’t I?”

“You always do.” Alastor agrees. His blood is bubbling, but now more like a fizzing soda water than battery acid. The piano notes have rebelled again and now play a slow waltz in the background. 

There is no better time to strike the King down. He can pay Lucifer in kind for the pain and shame dealt that morning after, and in the kitchen of his cottage, and as he sat stunned on his bloody bedroom floor holding the wriggling body of his newborn. He should laugh in the little monarch’s hopeful, blushing face.

“You are an idiot.” He says instead, smile small.

“I am!” Lucifer agrees eagerly, head bobbing like a bobble.

“You are a failure.” Alastor adds.

“I did say fuck up!” Lucifer gives a wave of his hand.

“You are a clown.”

“Give me a cockscomb and call me your fool!”

Alastor’s smile cracks open. He leans over the little king, hinging at the waist, hair falling around his face like curtains.

“My fool?” He asks in a low voice.

Lucifer swallows.

He takes a deep breath.

He angles his face up, propping up on his tip toes, lips puckered.

His eyes snap open when they don’t meet Alastor’s. The other demon has adjusted his own stance up, so that the King’s dark pucker is out of range of even the demon’s huff of breath.

“Here I thought this was an apology, not a seduction, my king. ” He remarks with a sly grin. Teasing. Tempting. 

Lucifer pulls his duck lips back to center. “I’m sor-mmmph!”

This apology is interrupted by the simple fact that Alastor is tired of it. He wants, and he has denied himself so much these last three months, power and entertainment, sleep and bloodshed, that he gives in. Sober and desperate, Alastor gives in to the want and need.

He wants this.

He wants Lucifer.

So he grabs the little idiot, the failure, the clown, by the lapels and smashes their mouths together, lips dragging against one another, teeth crashing and grinding, sucking and breathing him in.

“My fool.” Alastor whispers against Lucifer’s bloody lips. 

“My king.” Lucifer mouths back, matching Alastor’s smile with one of his own before worshipping him again.

Acceptable.

---

Alastor sat at the piano bench, his arms dangling limp at his sides. The sun shone in a ray across the white and black keys, dust falling slowly through the air, a dull sparkle to that miserable day. Dirt was still caked under his torn nails. He would not touch his mother’s piano with dirty hands. 

Clean, polished hands were the mark of a gentleman.

He could almost hear his maman’s favorite song playing in the silence. She always played with such delicacy, hesitant and careful. She was gentle with the keys. When his small, dark fingers covered hers, during his lessons, a hundred years ago, he itched to press the song on faster, to play louder and stronger. But his maman was patient and she did not let him ruin her song.

He could nearly smell her perfume.

“Mr. Holloway? Visitor.” His housekeeper announced from the doorway. 

“Tell them I’m receiving no visitors.” Alastor instructed, voice dull, eyes fixed on the nicked and well worn keys.

“Id’a thought you’d give your mother a bit more respect than a cover of night burial in a dirt patch.” A deep, angry voice of a man reprimanded.

“Go away, you bastard.”

Footsteps against the floor interrupt the song in Alastor’s head.

“Go away!” He shouted again as he turned around.

His father glared out from under low brows. “She deserved better than what you did, son. She deserved to be honored properlike. A service and mourners.” He growled.

“You don’t know what she deserved. She never deserved you getting her stuck with a half-breed bastard. But you never protected her. All that goddamn voodoo and you never protected her from…from…!” He choked on a sob and dropped his heavy head into his dirty, cracked hands. 

“From who?” 

Alastor shook his head. “You damned her. You damned her.” He said.

A hand was laid on his shoulder and squeezed, offering comfort that Alastor shook off. 

“I damned her.” Alastor whispered. His voice was cracked and rough. Like his hands. Not a gentleman. All she wanted was for Alastor to be a gentleman, to be successful, to rise above. Not a gentleman. Not a gentleman. Never a gentleman. A-“demon. I damned her.”

“She ain’t damned, Alastor. She ain’t in Hell.” His father seemed so sure of it. There was the otherworldly glint in his eyes, the one that made his smooth, unwrinkled face look ancient. “You can only damn yourself. Alastor, son, look at me.”

He did, with a fire in his eyes and hate in his broken heart.

“Get out of my house and don’t you dare come back. Or I’ll make sure you never do.” Alastor warned. 

He turned back to his mother’s piano, but it was a smear of white and black through the tears. The song sounded underwater, muffled and damp. Alastor needed to focus. He needed to pull the song together, so his mother could play. 

Music filled his mind again. It blocked out his erstwhile father, the grief that stabbed at his heart and soured his stomach, the buzzing in his ears. 

He thought he saw his father’s shadow move against the wall. Not hearing footsteps, he turned to warn the man against any further unwanted displays of unwanted affection. 

But his father was gone.

Good.

The man never had come around for Alastor’s sake anyway.

His housekeeper, a kindly smile on her full face, stopped by not long after, holding a tray of sweets that Alastor would refuse to touch.

“Oh, Mr. Holloway, it’s good to hear you play that old piano. Your mother did take pride in your playing, God rest her soul.” The old woman commented as she placed the tray on the side table.

Alastor quirked his head, mute, numb and barely comprehending.

He had not been playing the piano.

Chapter 21

Alastor’s smile never leaves his face. 

It is both a curse and an asset.

Inspiring to friends, confusing to enemies, convenient when playing poker.

(Ask Husker)

Experts - and grade school teachers - say it takes fewer muscles to smile than to frown. Usually. However, Alastor feels the weight of his eternal punishment as Charlie chews on the end of her pen and brainstorms that week’s therapy schedule.

She has dragged one of the lobby armchairs to the side of the Front Desk and sits on it backwards, long legs shooting out from either side of the wide back, one arm slung over the top to anchor her. 

Alastor - ever the contrast to this ramshackle operation - sits straight-backed, legs crossed, and hands folded from his perch on his stool. The corners of his smile start to glow green with the strain of his self-control. 

“What do you think?” Charlie asks, the chewed up pen now twirling in her dual colored bangs.

“Mainly about carnage and jazz!” Alastor answers. The light behind him tints green and Shadow looms large, smiling garishly red. He throws a short sax solo for a bit of pizzazz.

Charlie giggles.

“And about my little darling Lenore, of course!” He can feel his smile soften at the mere thought of his child’s sharp smile and sparkling blue eyes. The light returns to normal and, embarrassingly, Shadow’s eyes become plump hearts as it cups its hands over its heart. 

Soon Alastor will be so soft they can use his innards to replace all the furniture stuffing Charlie’s misuse has damaged. 

“About therapy, silly!” 

“For saps and suckers!”

“Al - focus!” Charlie juts her pen high in the air as she elucidates. “We really need to expand our trauma based therapy options. But we have so many creative-minded sinners who really thrive in our music and dance therapies and we can’t cut back on classes with waitlists! Angel is doing so well leading them too! Our couples therapy has been…interesting.”

“Explosive, one may say!”

“Oh, one teeny -tiny time.”

“Nothing says progress quite like brains on the ceiling!”

“We did see Dantae’s temper come out…”

“And his cerebrum!”

“Al! I just don’t know how we can fit this all in! Unless you lead-”

“I’d sooner swallow a ladle of tacks.”

Charlie deflates. “I suppose we can reduce the Sandplay to twenty minutes on Fridays, and cut out the third Jazzercise for Mondays, so we can go hard with Trauma to start and end the week.” She muses, pen tapping against her temple. 

Personally, Alastor believes trauma to be a healthy part of every demon’s breakfast, but his own recent schedule has not provided a prime example of these beliefs.

Lucifer.

Lucifer, Lucifer, Lucifer.

It has been only a handful of days since that bruising, hungry kiss. Lucifer had stayed the night, curled around Lenore, fingers tangled in Alastor’s. There had been more kisses. Sweet pecks, lingering smooches, light displays of affection. 

Alastor stared into drifting golden irises each night as his radio played them off the sleep. He woke to the sound of Lucifer playful chatter as he entertained Lenore in the early morning hours before her first feed of the day. Breathy coos and giggles harmonized with the King’s deep chuckles of pride. 

“Lalala-Lenore! Smile for Daddy! Lalala! Awww, there’s that smile! That’s Daddy’s happy baby girl! Where’s her toes? Ohhhh, look at those little toes - this little demon shopped in the Greed Ring, this little demon burned in Wrath, this little demon got candy in Gluttony, and this little demon took a bath, and thissss little demon went me, me, me alllll the way to Pride!”

Alastor would open his eyes to the King of Hell, the Devil, bent over the little baby, tickling her toes, or kissing her belly, or drawing little swirls along wiggling arms and legs. 

Then Lucifer would notice Alastor watching, and all that brightness would shift to him.

The King of Hell, formerly God’s favorite little angel, creator of cosmos, the Great Temptor, Lucifer, would shine at Alastor.

There would be a kiss - sweet, lingering, a hint of heat - and a small hand would cup Alastor’s sharp jawline, pulling him in closer, pressing fingertips into the soft bit of flesh under his strong jaw…

And then Lenore would voice her order to break her fast.

Kisses and soft conversation had been the extent of their burgeoning relationship. Compared to the venomous, violent opinions Alastor had held of the King for the majority of their time together, kisses and conversation were a vast improvement.

But Alastor, with a feeling eerily reminiscent of that night in the swamp, feels there should be more.

Lucifer seems perfectly content with their puppy love stage. 

That first morning at breakfast, the one after their bloodily passionate kiss, without needing a conversation on the subject, Lucifer had all but announced their updated status - whatever that is - to the group attending. Under the watchful eyes of the staff and the VIP guests, Angel and Miss Bomb, Lucifer had first planted a noisy kiss on Lenore’s rosy cheek and then stood on his tippy toes to peck Alastor’s cheek.

“Pour me some coffee, babe? Pretty please?” The King had asked, nodding at the freshly brewed pot.

“And Your Highness is unable to because…?” Alastor returned with a quirked brow.

Lucifer snickered as he stole Lenore away to twirl around the table. “Because my arms are full of our BABY!” He sang, feet leaving the ground several inches, Lenore’s curls bouncing about and over the white sleeve of his coat.

Charlie had squealed, fists smooshed into her round cheeks, stars and fireworks literally bursting around her person as she jumped in place.

It made Alastor…not happy. Public displays of affection continued to be a mixed bag for him. Even with Lenore, practically an extension of his own person, his flesh and blood, he experienced some hesitance and level of discomfort when displaying affection around others. But Lucifer’s casual acknowledgment of their whatever soothed a tangled bit of worry in his chest Alastor had not realized was there.

The King’s eager claim of Lenore, his adoration of her, his pride in her, that was a much easier emotion. Lucifer should adore Lenore. She was a wonder. A marvel. Likely the cleverest child ever born. 

Alastor supposes they are now “co-parenting,” as modern terminology would have it. Co-parenting in the same bed. With kisses. And Lucifer’s late night rambles of sweet talk…and hand holding…and caresses of ears…

He can feel his cheeks heating with the memory of that morning’s wake up call.

“Have you considered asking your father to delegate some professionals from Sloth to handle the more clinical sessions?” Alastor asks Charlie, his mind drifting back to the present conversation in an act of self-preservation.

“Why don’t youuuu ask him?” Charlie returns with a toothy grin.

Little hearts float around her head. 

Alastor’s radio fizzles and clicks to a new station with a touch softer static hum. 

“Ehem, we can bring it up at this afternoon’s staff meeting.” He suggests.

Charlie wags her finger at him. “Oh no no no, Mister! You have the afternoon off.” She reminds him. The color-coded schedule she pulls out does have Alastor’s red circle sticker on the “OFF” square for the P.M. 

“Really, my dear, my nerves are recovered from that nasty shock earlier this week and I am raring to get this therapy schedule sorted out!” 

Listen, Alastor is a good liar, but even he can’t sell that whopper.

“Hmm. Hang on.” Charlie pulls out her cellular device and dials out. She holds up her finger - nearly losing her precarious balance on the chair - as a tiny ringing sounds once, twice and “Hello! Yeah, I have Al here and he has some off this afternoon….he would LOVE that…I’m sure he will!...Yes… Yes! ...oh thank you thank you! Bye!” 

Charlie presses a finger to the screen.

“You’re going to Rosie’s.”

---

It has been too long since Alastor visited his dearest friend. He has exchanged correspondence, of course, and Charlotte assured him that Rosie received regular photographs of Lenore, but there really was no substitute to an in-person appearance.

Alastor is…uneasy.

He has left the Hazbin Hotel’s premises exactly once since returning. To deal with those who would steal and harm his child.

Lenore has left the Hazbin Hotel’s premises exactly once since returning. When stolen away by those who might harm her.

A certain measure of wary anxiety lines his nerves. 

Packing a day bag is an experience in itself. 

Lenore grunts in frustration from the bed, forced to engage in the most dreaded activity of “tummy time” prior to their social engagement. Her face is turning a curious shade of gold and puce as she holds up her tiny skull, arms and legs flapping in the air like a beached seal. She lets out a prolonged, throaty whine.

“Yes, yes, I am a mean, mean monster enjoying the tormented cries of the weak,” Alastor smirks at her. “I have heard it all before, my pet. One more minute of this torture.”

He turns back to the bag. Extra clothes, ribbons to match the extra set of clothes, burp rag, a shirt for Alastor in case of spit up, extra diapers, binkies (Rosie’s creations), another set of clothes just in case, actually, best pack a third just in case, her favorite footy pajamas just in case she gets sleepy, a blanket for this potential naptime, bandage wraps just in case, actually - on second thought - he will pack the whole first aid kit just in case , a nose sucker for those pesky boogers that irritate her, saline drops, some grip water that Charlie swears by but that Alastor has not had much use for, oh, and more wet wipes that are so convenient for messes (what a wonder humanity invents!), her rattle - the one with teeth inside that creates a much more interesting sounds over that manufactured junk - and her deer stuffy - on second thought, he will need to pack her duckie stuffy to appease her immature father (really, Lucifer must accept that there is time he has lost by being an abusive, selfish, idiotic cretin and Lenore prefers her mother. Facts are facts.) - and she may want to listen to music so he must pack her teeny radio as well, and…

the bag can’t even hold half of these items.

He hums as he considers the conundrum. Sure, he could put the items in one of his magical dimensions but then they would not be as readily available as he may need on an outing. And, in the rare event that Alastor is unavailable, how would Rosie have access to these extremely necessary items? 

Lenore grunts.

“Hmm, quite, my dear, but you do complain so if your needs aren’t met just so.” 

She whines, the sound increasing in pitch by the second, until it is a genuine wail.

“Oh, hush! There, is that better? Now, let your maman pack so we may be on our way. Punctuality is a cornerstone of good manners.” 

“Moving out?” Lucifer asks from behind. 

He is grinning when Alastor turns to look at him. The little king is dressed to full absurdity, complete with ridiculous hat and apple cane. His smile softens visibly as Alastor looks at him, and the warm glow of his attention softens Alastor’s own spiking anxiety.

“I am not so lucky, Majesty. No, a simple visit to Cannibal Town to see my friend and colleague Rosie.” He explains. 

“Yeah, I know. I’m your escort.” Lucifer grips the brim of his hat between thumb and index finger and tips it lightly. 

“Are you now? Well, I believe I can manage. You’ll recall I have been doing so for several months without your assistance.”

“Don’t get your fluffy little tail in a bunch - I was kidding! I thought, you know, it might be nice to go for a walk. Together. With Lenore. So we can spend time together. Outside of the hotel. You know, it’s fine! I’m being clingy - this is your thing! I’ll just-” 

Alastor puts a finger to Lucifer’s flapping lips.

“You wish to spend time with me…in public?” He asks.

Lucifer nods against his finger.

“Others will see.”

“I’ll make them watch.” Those golden eyes burn with either a threat or a promise. 

Alastor may imagine the way the room goes hazy, and the crackle of flames that he can hear in his ears. A fleeting thought, a pleasant one, crosses his giddy brain that falling for the Devil himself will damn him further, if that is even possible.

Damn me. 

Damn me. Anchor me to your Hell. Hold me here, with you, with her. Keep me in the light of your hellfire. Don’t let Her take me back to the darkness.

Protect me.

Alastor has never once asked for another’s protection. Not for himself. But, here, held in Lucifer’s hellfire warm attention, he is so, so tempted.

“I had intended to travel more directly.” Alastor says instead, stepping back, breaking the moment.

Lucifer brushes by as he shifts his attention to the wiggling baby on the bed.

“Poor little Lenore, cooped up in a hotel, wouldn’t you like to go on a walk with Daddy? Tell your maman that everyone should see that this pretty little princess has the most powerful daddy and maman in the whole wide universe!”

It clicks.

“A show of force.” Alastor states.

Lucifer lifts Lenore and presses a sloppy kiss on each cheek with a mwah! mwah! Then he lifts her higher to pretend to bite at her belly with a nomnomnomnom! Finally, grande finale, he cradles her in an arm and tickletickletickles her chest and belly with blackened fingers. 

The baby - her taste in entertainment leaving something to be desired - giggles.

“You mean for Hell to see us as a united front, to protect Lenore. Sire, Lucifer, they may mistake me as-”

“I don’t care what Hell thinks.” Lucifer interrupts, expression grown serious. “Heaven is watching.” Then he smiles again and shrugs, “And I do want to spend time with you two. I’ve missed a lot, and that’s my fault, but I…*sigh* I really, really want this to work, Al. Indulge me?”

There’s that temptation, tugging at Alastor’s heart, the pull to fall into Lucifer’s arms and stay safe.

It had been so long since Alastor felt safe.

“I suppose it is a lovely day in Hell for a stroll.” He concedes.

Within the hour, dressed to the nines, diaper bag bursting from the seams and safely stowed on the shelf under an elaborate, frilly pram, the King of Hell and the Overlord set off down the hill from the Hazbin Hotel to make their way to Cannibal Town.

Lucifer - pushing the pram as Alastor twirls his staff, nervousness hidden behind a wide chipper smile - nods to several demons as they pass. Said demons appear to turn to stone, so stunned are they to the sight of the trio out in daylight.

One demon jumps into a thorny bush.

Another jumps into a sewer.

“See how the rabble flee the sight of their mighty king!” Alastor muses, only half-joking.

Lucifer shoots a wicked smile up Alastor’s way. “I’m not the one who single-handedly left the city in ruins on his last outing…” Something like pride flashes in his expression. “A king of carnage, of calamity, of catastrophe." He purrs.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear.” Alastor certainly does not blush, no matter how hot his cheeks are burning. 

“I sure hope so!” 

They walk in silence for a block or two. Lenore gazes up at the floating clouds of sulphuric gases above, half swats at the silver pentagrams hanging down from the canopy of her pram, and, with her signature sharp smile, wraps her father even tighter around her finger.

“Lenore, little Lenore. My darling girl.” Lucifer says softly, transfixed. 

Alastor carefully guides the pram and king around a pothole in the sidewalk, gloved hand next to Lucifer’s blackened fingers on the pram’s handlebar. 

Those fingers scoot over to cover Alastor’s, and squeeze, nearly too tight.

“I’m sorry.” The King whispers. “Don’t forgive me. I’ll never forgive myself. But I’m so, so sorry, Al. How…how could I…our baby…?”

Alastor wishes they were in private so he might be gentle with his silly, stupid fool. Again, Lucifer’s pathetic display has pulled on the strings of Alastor’s black heart. Well, the Overlord had a tendency to take in the strays and outcasts. He famously would make a deal with any Sinner - why discriminate? - and pulls the strings to so many schemes. 

Then he walked into the shadows.

“Chin up!” Alastor says, a bit to them both.

Lucifer does and immediately groans.

“Oh, fuck me.” 

“Language!” 

“Don’t give me that - I know Charlie is the only one who cares about the swear jar - look up ahead!”

Ah, “fuck me” indeed. Just ahead, at the edges of the well-kept entrance to Cannibal Town, Overlords Zestial and Carmilla Carmine block the way.

“Well, well! A welcome committee!” Alastor chirps.

Zestial - eyes and spider legged cloak aglow - graces the King of Hell with a sophisticated half bow, his ancientness exuding from him like a bad odor. Carmilla’s bow is even more reserved, with only her horned-do head tipping in reverence. They both, in perfect synchronization, narrow their focus to the pram.

“Ah, Your Grace, ‘tis good to see thou about. Hark! Alastor, how art thou faring? There hath been rumors of thou procreating, and mine eyes may be weary yet here thou hath proved them true here. Here, Carmilla, the child!” The Ancient Overlord declares, leaning forward, his shadow cast over the baby.

She faintly glows against the crimson blankets, seeming transfixed by the glowing green of the Overlord, the color so like her mother’s own powers. But then she sees Carmine, frowning and serious, hawk-like in her glare, and the little cupid’s bow starts to quiver. 

“A baby, Alastor? Really? You?” She asks, managing to sound genuinely curious despite her flat affect. 

“Why, yes, me! Dreadfully sorry - the birth announcements are a touch delayed but, rest assured, the Council has been close to my heart.” Alastor presses a hand to said heart for emphasis.

“Congratulations.” Carmine says. Her eyes flick to Lucifer and back to Alastor. “Your absence from the meetings of the Sovereign Overlords has been noted. I have sent you three separate invites. Given you were the subject of the meetings, your absence was noted and unfortunate.”

“Oh, you know, I’ve been here and there, doing this and that. His Majesty will attest to my general state of busyness.” Alastor shrugs, a playful smile tilted crooked on his face.

After a not-so-gentle elbow nudge by Alastor, Lucifer startles into a reaction, “Yeah, super busy. Baby, hotel, wowzers, so busy.” He gives that killer, razor-sharp smile that usually gets the King his way.

Then - seeing Carmine and Zestial are seemingly unaffected - Lucifer attempts to pass by the pair with a quick, “Well, great ta see ya, Zesty, Camille, but Al and I have an appointment to make.” 

Carmine steps in front of the pram.

The Radio Demon clicks his staff to the ground, and bends his knees slightly to brace for action. He floods a bit of power through his features. Antlers crack and branch out. His mouth widens and freezes into a rictus grin. 

“Careful, old girl! Old habits die hard…” He warns, radio static thick in his voice, the words dipping down several octaves on the final words.

“Heaven has approached the overlords.” Carmine says.

The power drains from Alastor’s veins as his heart climbs into his throat.

Lucifer steps around the pram, hand remaining on the side, in front of the frozen overlord. His posture screams magnificence and stately dominance. It is a transformation that sends Alastor’s instincts - already activated - into overdrive. Fragments from that night at the cottage, of the battle Alastor barely won, of shadows and flames, pain.

Protect.

The King frowns at the overlords.

“Have the overlords aligned with Heaven then?” He demands, but the golden sclera of his eyes is already overtaken by glowing red. Horns slip through the porcelain white skull and stretch to the sky. The apple normally adorning his hat burst into flames and burns between his horns.

Angelic wings burst out, spraying out beams of light and screams of the damned.

Alastor’s own powers stir swiftly back into action in the Devil’s presence. Shadow rips away from his master’s frame to guard the pram. Eldritch horrors wrap around the Radio Demon’s slim frame, caressing his limbs as they poise on the brink of striking out.

Power drums into the ground and invades the air in thick waves. Curious onlookers scatter into their homes and nearby businesses. 

“None have yet accepted, to my knowledge.”

“Except Vox.” Alastor supplies.

“Another noted absence from our meetings.” Camilla says.

Interesting.

“As ever, it is mine honor to be pledged to my king, Your Grace. I do so anew.” Zestial reassures his King. “Camilla hath beseeched the other to follow suit. There art…deep mistrust…the Crown’s absence, our Queen’s flight, and now mine own eyes hath seen Angels in flight at thy daughter’s abode. Hell hath seen. How shalt we inspire devotion in youth, in those present not in the dark ages whenst thy proved thy might?”

The Devil acknowledges the Ancient Overlord with an incline of his head. Hellfire plays on his fingertips as he manipulates the air. A golden pin, barely the length of a coin, imprinted with Lucifer’s sigil floats between his fingers. With a flick of his fingers, he sends it to Zestial, and the badge pins itself to the long black robes.

“All who wear this badge in alliance with the Crown may count on my protection from Heaven’s threats. Should Heaven attempt to harm those in my protection - I shall be there personally. Touch the pin, and I will be called. Give them to your souls, and tell them the Devil will deal with Heaven.” Lucifer explains. His voice carries that touch of highborn crispness. 

The red glow of Hell’s light reflects off the crown and sends a sliver of red across Lenore as the King turns to regard his child.

Alastor shivers and grips his staff tighter to stop himself from jumping between them.

But the daughter of the Devil, Princess of Hell, squeals in delight at the sight of her demonic father.

It takes some effort to keep his tendrils from attacking Lucifer as Alastor steps back to stand at the pram’s other side. He too looks down to the absolute delight of his daughter. 

Another pitched squeal lightens the mood.

Instead of bowing or kneeling for his king, Zestial extends his long arms in a display of dread and strength, the underside of his cloak beams lime green, red stains of his captured souls lining the webs. A terrible sense of time seeps into the air waves, messing with Alastor’s stations and tuning.

“‘Twill be an honor to alloweth mine souls to serve and be-est protected by our illustrious king and his issue! Thine return is bright, my liege!” Zestial sounds as pleased as Alastor has ever heard him.

“Overlord Carmine?” The King asks.

Camilla holds her ground. She considers the King. Calculations are done behind those sharp red eyes. An Overlord decides between the foe who murdered thousands of her souls and the monarch who allowed it to happen. Her hand - resting on her cocked hip, the Overlord a picture of smooth confidence in the face of Hell’s most powerful being - raises slowly, with intention, and extends to the King.

They shake.

A golden badge appears on Carmine’s breast.

“All your souls must pledge their allegiance to their king for his protection. They may do it in your presence, but it must be done.” The King clarifies.

“And to the princesses.” Alastor adds.

“Yes, and Charlie and Lenore.” 

“Not to Alastor.” Camilla states firmly.

Alastor glares at his colleague. “I am not the Crown, am I? And I have more than sufficient souls in my vanguard. Tut tut, Carmine, underestimating me a second time in so many minutes. One questions if you do wish for a bit of fun!” He plays a snippet of the Ride of the Valkyries, which, if he says so himself, is a fair compromise between threatening and humorous for a start of the proposed battle.

 “Good day, Radio Demon. I will see you at the next meeting.” She returns. 

Unaffected. Unamused. Certifiably not cowed.

Well, everyone’s a critic.

Even if they are wrong.

Zestial whips the yards of his cloak around and the two Overlords fold into nothing as they transport away.

“My! We really should get out more! How wacky! The start of a rebellion. What a time! Absolute aces!” Alastor giggle, a touch manic, sanity slipping a bit in the heat of it all.

He hopes Lucifer does not hear the shake at the edges of his laugh.

---

The Emporium is closed for the afternoon in honor of the trio’s visit. Rosie had betrayed her surprise at the King’s accompaniment but smoothly added a chair to the table and bantered with him over his choice of coffee over tea. ("Terrible taste, Ya Majesty! 'Spose you are Alastor are of the same feather there, ha!") The perfume of his friend’s power soothes Alastor’s jittering nerves as he takes in her compliments on Lenore’s beauty and intelligence.

“Let your auntie look at you! My stars! Marie Lenore you are a doll! Growing like a sunflower in a hot July! Oh, Alastor, I knew that button nose of hers would pinch out! Yes, lovey, you look just like your maman! Such a pretty face - one for the pictures! Oh, and of course she has her father’s eyes, Ya Majesty!”

Lenore, propped into a sitting position on Rosie’s lap, chews happily on her new hand-stitched shadow minion poppet. Alastor would like to point out that his minions are not to be compared to playthings, but Shadow is performing a pantomime show for Lenore nightly, and he really doesn't have a leg to stand on there. 

“Tell me everything!” The Cannibal Overlord demands.

Alastor leans back in his chair. “My dear, we are expected back for supper!” He quips.

His radio plays a tinny laugh track.

“About you out and about on a stroll with little miss, you scoundrel! Half this town’s flapping their gums on the King’s puppy dog look and the pep in your step already!” 

“Ah, well, that. It’s true. This pup practically begged to accompany me. Poor thing was scratching and whining at the door! Well, to prevent another accident on the floor-”

Lucifer bristles. “Alright, wise guy!” He shoves his cellular device in Alastor's face anyway. "She's right, 666 is reporting on it already."

👑PROUD DADDY - KING SHOWS OFF ANGEL  - OVERLORDS BOWING TO NEW HEIR???👑

♥️Rumors TRUE: BABY MORNINGSTAR EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS♥️

♥️👑QUEEN ALASTOR? KING IS MOVING ON👑♥️

"Queen." Lucifer snorts into his cup. 

"Hilarious." Alastor deadpans - as much as he can - and stomps on the King's foot under the table. “Fine, it is a half-truth, His Highness did wish Heaven and Hell to see Lenore and her guard dogs patrolling the yard.”

Rosie huffs and very nearly slams her cup of tea onto its saucer. 

“Those feathered devils - pardon me, Ya Majesty - are a menace. Twice now I’ve been sent offers to pledge my souls to them and twice I’ve had the pleasure of telling ‘em they can kiss my bony behind!” She says angrily, baring her razor sharp teeth at the thought. “Fools thinking I would turn on this angel doll and my dearest friend too! Bah!”

“Yes, well, Camilla Carmine and Zestial stopped us at your gates. The others have been approached as well, it would seem.” 

Alastor summarizes the scene with the other Overlords. His friend listens attentively, a petite gloved hand twisting a golden curl lightly and stroking the baby’s sensitive skull. Her hold around Lenore’s middle tightens visibly. 

“I pledge to you, Ya Majesty. If you swear to keep them both safe, both Al and his little girl, Cannibal Town will stand against those flying bastards again!” 

Lucifer nods, stiff and formal, at odds with his previous friendly warmth, and extends his hand. The two finalize the alliance with an equally stiff handshake, until the baby between them throws her own hands over the top and studies them. Lucifer breaks apart gently and bops her - apparently - pinched nose.

At the same moment, a golden pin appears on Rosie’s lapel.

They chat about nonsense gossip and all important Lenore updates for the better part of an hour. Eventually, Lucifer goes downstairs to take a fussy baby around the Emporium to look at the frilly offerings on the shelves. 

“Alastor…” Rosie reaches across the table to lay her hand on his.

“It’s foolishness on my part, I know that, my dear.” He admits. “He attacked us. But he saved her when I could not. I do not have his power, and Heaven is coming at all angles. And His Highness has promised to refrain from homicidal acts against my person, haha! He…heavens, I am a fool of the first order. I trust him. Rosie, my dearest Rosie, I put my trust in him and he protected her.”

He shivers and clasps his hands between his thighs to warm them. 

“Are you happy?” She asks.

“Yes…I suppose I am. For now.”

“Then I’m happy for you. It don’t make sense, does it? Love.” 

Love?

What a pitiful emotion. Love. Romantic love. An ugly, pathetic weakness. Especially in Hell. To give one’s enemies a target away from one’s body, out of sight, out of control. Alastor enjoys being in Lucifer's company, might even admit to appreciating his touch, his kisses, and warm attention. But he will never, ever be so stupid as to fall in love.

Motherhood may have made him soft, and opened him to attack, weakened him, but the Radio Demon is not completely stupid.

“Hmm, don’t get the eagers, my dear. A bit of necking and a stroll is not cause for such dramatics.” 

Lucifer has surely started a fire down in the store, because the temperature has to have risen. Under the collar has gotten pretty warm for ol’ Alastor upstairs! Then Rosie makes a loud, mocking, smooching sound and he nearly swallows his tongue, record screeching around them, as the Cannibal Overlord giggles uproariously.

"Honey, you let this old gal get her kicks. My best friend snags the king of Hell and you ask me to calm down." 

"Pfft, we are hardly going steady. I am no blushing filly for Lucifer."

"Don't even with me. You've always been a solitary guy." Rosie says with a hint of a scold

"I have not always been on my own!" Alastor hisses.

“I mean in death, sweetie.” 

He might have said more, argued that the Radio Demon needs no one, needs no friends or lovers, that he has never needed anyone, but he is stopped by a shriek below.

"Alastor! Alastor! Holy Sweet Father Above! ALASTOR!" Lucifer's usually light steps are loud and crashing on the stairs. 

The Radio Demon - so rarely out - shrieks in joy at another release in one day. Ichor pulls his joints apart, limbs stretching and shadows spreading across the small apartment, and radio signals search the air for danger. Ions hit and attack the power Rosie has imbued in her domain. The opposing magical forces spark and hiss.

Rosie has risen from her seat and stands at the ready.

Protect protect protect protect.

"Woah! Shit - SHIT - sorry! Not bad, not bad! Calm down! Woooooooah, radio boy, she's okay!" Lucifer flies up to meet the Radio Demon's distorted face head on. 

But it is Lenore who reaches out to explore her mother's horrid face. The faintest blue light circles her and brushes up against the Radio Demon's shadows. It is soft and gentle on his power. The Radio Demon nuzzles into the curious fingers on his glowing green-stitched cheeks, and ultimately lands his forehead against hers. Gradually, he shrinks back to his original packaging. Lenore is in his arms - hands still gripping at his mouth, digging at his thin lips and provoking the stitches to blink on and off like an antique marquee - and Alastor glares at Lucifer for the false alarm.

No attack.

No danger.

Just an idiot.

"She, um, well, oh...look! There!" Lucifer points at Lenore.

Ahh.

Bubbles. Bubble-gum pink, glowing green, and golden, small as a penny and large as a tea saucer, float around them. It's incredible. The baby babbles as they float and fall. Alastor reaches out to cup one, gently, in his shadows. He can feel Lenore's blue light kiss against his own magic.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

When the pink bubbles burst, a flood of smaller crimson bubbles are released. The glowing green end in a flash of light. The golden ones, filled with smoke, swirl around them. 

"She's coming into her powers." Rosie whispers in awe.

Alastor looks down the Lenore. She is happy and glowing. The remaining bubbles burst when one of her fingers finally manage to pop one of the large golden ones. A spray of popping crimson bubbles, flashing green light, and wisping golden smoke showers on her. Her nose wiggles and she sneezes.

"Mon Coeur, you are a wonder." Alastor praises softly.

He notices, however, that Lucifer is not smiling.

Alliances, media, and bubbles - oh my! What a day it has been.

Chapter 22

Notes:

Phew, what a bear of a chapter.

Alastor was not supposed to be out of bed, and he didn’t like to be walking around the too big house after dark. After bed, when Maman and Nanny wished him good night and good dreams, Alastor was supposed to stay in his bed. That was the rule. If he got caught, Maman would frown and be very cross.

He did not like when Maman frowned.

Smiles were much better! Maman always said he was never fully dressed without a smile!

But the shadows were whispering awful loud in the nursery that night. Shadows played games on the walls and floors in the moonlight. They tried to get him to play too. That was naughty. He wasn’t supposed to play after bed.

It was real hard to ignore the chattering shadows in the quiet night. They giggled. They sang. All in whispers, so no one else could ever hear. Old people could never hear right, and only old people lived at his house. Maman, Father, Nanny, Grand-mère, everyone. 

He tip-toed down the long hallway. There were no windows here. It was dark, and the floor was so cold on his bare feet. His nightgown was thin and too short for him. He grew like a weed, Nanny liked to tease. His Maman said he grew like a flower. That was a nicer thing to say. But it all meant that his clothes didn’t never fit quite right a lot of the time.

His Maman’s door had a long sliver of light at the bottom. That meant she was still awake. Father was away on a trip, so it was okay to visit. Maman would be happy to see Alastor. She said his smile was the best and he gives her the best kisses. He would make his maman happy with his visit. And he could get away from the shadows keeping him awake.

“I’m worried about Alastor.”

He stopped when he heard his name. Maman was talking to someone. Father was gone, and no one else ever was in Maman’s room after dark.

“Don’ be. He seems a bright child.” A deep voice. A man’s voice. Maman had a man in her room!

“He is…but he…he…God Almighty, he scares me sometimes!” 

Scare Maman? Alastor does not want to scare Maman. He loves Maman, more than any person in the whole of Louisiana (that’s where he lives, Louisiana in the United States of America!). 

“Strange doings. He is my sweet boy, my darling, but sometimes he acts he ain’t a boy at all. Like he is from another world. Another time. And there are such strange doings in his room, especially at night. He talks to spirits, I think. I think-”

Not spirits! Shadows, Maman! He has told her they are shadows.

“Don’t you worry nothing about that. Child’s imaginings. He’s real special, is all.” 

“That night when we-”

“Marie. Listen to me now. Alastor is a good boy. You fussing over a whole lot over nothing.”

“If he has the devil born in him-”

The devil? 

Alastor remembered that night in the bayou. He remembered running for fear that he was going to Hell for cursing God. He remembered shadows and whispers and so much fear. If the devil was born in him, that makes it much worse because then he can’t get salvation. Preacher told him he could repent and be forgiven but he doesn’t think the devil gets that.

He started to shake even more. His eyes burned with tears for his own damnation. It would not be fair if he never even got a chance for Heaven! 

“Devil has got nothing to do with voodoo. You know better than that, sha. I’d tell you a thousand times if it’d help: you don’t got nothing to worry ‘bout. Alastor is bright. His little ol’ mind gets away, is all.”

“If he’s a damned…a demon. No, I can’t bear it! Not my boy!” His mother sobbed. 

That was real bad then. His maman thinking he’s a demon and all! That’s worse than damned even! 

“He’s not! Trust me, sha! Trust me. You can, you know you can, sha. He just got a bit of dark in his play. Macabre sometimes, children. Come here, youse shivering something terrible.” 

Alastor did not want to hear more. Hot tears flowed down his cheeks. He was scared, more scared than he had been of the shadows. More scared than he had been of the dark and quiet of his room.

He ran back and hid under his covers, bundling into the warm sheets and crying.

Hours later, half asleep and dazed, eyes throbbing from where he rubbed them, sweaty and damp after being so long under his blanket. He scooted up his bed so he could lay his head on his pillow. It was cool on his hot skin. 

He watched the shadows play on the walls. It was comforting to watch them. His mind - too quick, his maman said - stopped spiralling on thoughts of damnation and instead tried to guess what odd shaped branches outside made such odd shaped shadows. Or what silly birds fluttered about his window so late at night to make them. Or the people who pass by chattering in hushed whispers or humming nonsense songs, their forms like a puppet show on his wall.

When he is gently shaken awake by his maman, he could give her a sleepy smile and accept her kisses without worry lingering in his young mind. He could walk to his second story window and look out - view unobstructed - and see the looming bayou in the distance, over the fields, just down an incline that was not quite a hill. 

And he never thought of the shadows in the daylight.

---

They forgo the scenic route back to the hotel at the end of the visit. Alastor gives Rosie a peck on her bony cheek, promises not to be a stranger, and allows his dearest friend a final snuggle with his darling daughter. Lenore, finally tuckered out, dozes through the goodbyes and farewells. 

Lucifer swirls a portal into existence and the three step directly into the hotel lobby. 

"Hey! Welcome back!" Angel calls out from his usual spot at the bar. 

Lucifer gives a half wave. The lobby and bar are nearly deserted. Alastor vaguely recalls a non-hotel sponsored affair organized to take place on the roof this evening, some form of union put together by a newcomer. Charlie had been overjoyed when Alastor brought her the flyer. She saw it as a good sign that her residents were coming together and learning to trust one another. Lucifer had slapped a hand over his smiling mouth when he tried to explain that people generally unionized when dissatisfied with present conditions.

Oh well, given the residents were not paid employees (and the employees themselves were not paid per se), Alastor chose to let that particular bit of information be left unsaid.

"Charlie in her office?" He asks.

Angel shakes his head. "Nah, Vaggie took her out on the town. In case coo-coo crazy up there come for us with pitchforks and rocks." He swirls his fingers around his head to demonstrate the level of insanity his fellow residents might experience.

"A date. That's awesome! For Charlie. And Vaggie." Lucifer says, in the loud way that means he did not truly mean what he is saying.

"It is." Alastor agrees at a normal volume.

"Didja need her for something?" Angel asks.

"No! No, I, um, just was wondering if she could watch Lenore for an hour or so." He answers. Pointedly not meeting Alastor raised eyebrows, golden gaze trained on the floor. "So Alastor and I might have a drink. Alone."

Alone.

"I can watch her if you need grown-up-alone-time." Angel offers eagerly.

Lucifer perks up. "Would you? She's sleeping. Just ate back at Rosie's. She should nap for a couple hours at least. And we'll just be upstairs if you need us."

"Yeah, sure. If Moms here is cool with it." 

Alastor sighs and chooses the path of least resistance.

"Very well. Just know that any harm to her is returned to you a hundred fold."

"Yup! Ah man, this is awesome! Angel's babysitting service is open fer business!" Angel runs over and hip bumps Alastor out and away from the pram. He waves with one hand as he sprints back to the bar, moving the pram out of sight in case Alastor changes his mind.

Alastor feels the rush of Lucifer's magic around him, caressing him, transporting him, and allows himself to be taken.

---

The door shuts with a snick. 

They stare at one another.

The silence between them stretches out awkwardly.

Standing at his own door, in his own room, Alastor feels out of place. There’s a strange sense of dissonance, as if Alastor is stuck in a moment that doesn’t quite belong to him. An actor without a script, thrown into a scene that does not call for him.

More silence.

Alastor’s buzzing static, usually an undercurrent—an almost inaudible whisper of interference—pervades the space around them. . In the chaos of daily life, it’s barely noticeable, a hum in the background. But when the noise of the world fades, and only silence remains, the static becomes deafening. 

Once, in a rare contemplative mood, he’d wondered if his connection to the radio waves - and the near-constant static he transmits in varying volumes - was another punishment. A mockery of the secrecy he'd needed to have in life. His emotions, once carefully guarded, are impossible to smother now, even with a constant smile.

The hum around him rises and falls like a heartbeat, a pulse that he has little control over. It is a reflection of his nerves, his uncertainty, his waning confidence. He reminds himself it is only Lucifer and then realizes it’s only Lucifer with him. Alone. In his room. For the first time since -

Lucifer clears his throat.

More silence.

Then clears it again with a long eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-em.

"Okie dokie!" He exclaims with enthusiasm, voice too loud, causing him to wince once more. He nods sharply, his chin nearly touching his chest. A glass of bubbling champagne suddenly appears in each hand. He offers one to Alastor with a shy smile.

“Champagne? Are we celebrating?” Alastor asks.

Lucifer shrugs. “Nah, I just like the bubbles.” He winces, as if reminded of a particularly unpleasant memory or an unfinished task on his desk.

“To bubbles!” Alastor raises his glass.

That familiar wince appears again.

Alastor might laugh at the absurdity of it if Lucifer’s face weren’t so heavy with worry, so clouded by restless thoughts. Instead, he offers a rare reassuring smile. 

Alastor hesitates before lifting his glass to his lips. Lucifer drains his own glass, which refills once emptied, then repeats the gesture twice more—each time, the liquid bubbles closer to the surface.

“Thirsty? Would you prefer Husker as your drinking companion? I certainly will bow out should you wish to drink yourself under the table with a professional.” Alastor says, a sharp edge cutting his static-rich voice.

“No. Sorry. Just…bubbles.”

The word is heavy with a ridiculous amount of dark foreboding. Bubbles. Alastor would laugh at the absurdity of it if Lucifer’s expression were not so serious.

“Yes, today’s theme: bubbles—bubbles, bubbles in the air, bubbles floating everywhere,” he says in a bright, carefree tone and lifts his glass again in cheer.

The effervescent liquid sparkles in the dim light of the room, bubbles rising and bursting within. It reminds him of the beautiful whimsy of Lenore’s magic. Light, colorful, and enchanting. He takes a sip, and the fizz tickles his nose, adding a playful, almost mischievous touch. So like his Lenore. Amidst the bubbles, his thoughts mingle—pride for his daughter’s talents, warmth in his heart, and a lingering worry for her future.

“Lenore was a marvel.” Alastor comments. 

Mention of either of his children never failed to brighten Lucifer’s mood. If Alastor’s static betrayed his changing emotions and their intensity, Lucifer’s golden eyes were a window to the Devil’s soul.

It is obvious that Lucifer is completely smitten with Lenore. 

There had been a vibrant, almost playful energy about Lucifer this week. With almost no restrictions on his access to her, allowed to claim her and brag to any sinner who would listen. Lucifer whistled as he went about his duties, singing out cheerful carols while flying through the lobby, dusting the chandeliers with the tips of his wings, a shower of glittering gold raining down.

He glowed from the inside out like a lantern of tarnished angelic grace. 

Alastor might have found it nauseating if his own child were not the cause of such pride from the King Sin himself. 

But now, at the mention of Lenore, Lucifer throws back another glass of champagne.

Then another.

Alastor finally turns away from the door, walking over to place his half-full glass on the bedside table. His movements are clipped, his expression tense with irritation. 

It had been a good day. A warm visit with his dear friend, the proud reveal of his daughter’s talents, some strategic war preparations sprinkled in—what fun!—and now, an extremely rare opportunity to be alone together, away from the hectic day-to-day obligations of the hotel and parenthood.

“You’ve been in a snit since the Emporium.”

“Yeah.”

“Lucifer.”

“Yeah?”

Alastor bristles, his irritation clear in the tightness of his voice. “I have no tolerance for mind games. Kindly explain your absurd brooding or excuse yourself.”

Lucifer snorts, his deep contemplation broken by a brief bout of sass. “You are a gold medalist in mind games, Al. Pro league. Hall of Famer.”

“Time is ticking.”

He adds in the appropriate sound track to demonstrate. 

Tick

 

Tock

 

Tick

 

Tock

“Okay. Fine. I’m worried,” Lucifer admits. 

He swirls the remaining champagne in his glass, the liquid spiraling higher with each rotation until it spills over. He curses and, with a flick of his wrist, tosses the glass into the air. As it falls, it transforms into an off-white silk handkerchief, which Lucifer catches effortlessly and uses to wipe his hand dry.

“It’s actually her magic that has me worried. It’s strong. And strange. Did you notice? It was…like trail mix.”

“Trail mix.”

“Yeah, trail mix. Like peanuts, and raisins, and M&Ms.”

“You’re comparing my daughter’s powers to peanuts” Alastor replies, sarcasm heavy in his voice. “How very complimentary. A quote for the papers. Charlie is the apple of your eye. Lenore is the peanuts at your circus.”

Lucifer ignores that bit of bait.

“Powers, well, they're like DNA or blood. They’re deeply tied to who you are. Unique. But today, when Lenore made those bubbles, it wasn’t... It was her, yes, her power, but it also felt like separate strains, like different energies intertwining. Like her power had layers, overlapping.” Lucifer says, his golden gaze lifting, brow furrowed in deep concern.

His frown is so pronounced that every line in his face is exaggerated, distorting his usually aesthetically pleasing features into something almost ugly. “Al, I’ve never seen this. Not ever. This kind of power, especially in a baby, it’s dangerous. It needs control. Charlie’s powers didn’t even start to show until her adolescence.”

“Lenore isn’t Charlie.” Alastor snaps. “For example, I plan on parenting her. You are welcome to join the effort. What a new experience it could be for you!”

“Haha. Yeah, let’s poke that bruise again. Hardy-hah! Lucifer’s a deadbeat dad! Hahaha!” His laughter borders on mania, high-pitched and bitter. He clutches his head, spine bending a bit under the weight of his hysteria.

The hairs on Alastor’s neck stand on end—a primal warning to back off. This is his territory, and he will not stand down. Not where his daughter is concerned. Lucifer has so little right to be present in Lenore's life, and even less to judge her abilities. The child is brilliant, powerful, a product of her parent's abilities.

Lucifer will get no presents at this little pity party from Alastor.

“If the label suits, Sire,” he says, smooth as glass, sharp as a dagger, “you certainly didn’t jump into your parental responsibilities with a pep in your step for my daughter.” He presses a bit harder on Lucifer’s regrets, daring him to mitigate or deny his behavior in the cottage.

He thinks Lucifer might leave then. But, to Alastor’s surprise, Lucifer doesn’t walk away. Instead, he walks over to the bed, sinks down onto the edge, and simply sits there, quiet

The air between them thickens, Alastor senses that this conversation may be more than a clash of egos. The regal mask has completely slipped from Lucifer’s face, leaving something vulnerable in its place.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” Lucifer whispers. 

The fight goes out of Alastor at that.

He sinks down onto the bed too. 

“What do you mean, Lucifer?” He asks.

Lucifer curls in on himself further, hugging his arms around his chest. He noticeably builds up his courage, and he chooses his words with obvious care when he finally does speak.

“Fatherhood. Being a parent. It’s just not natural for me. I was made to create universes, draft rules of nature, design landscapes, stuff like that. Then I fell, and all that went into ruling Hell. But even then, I mostly had to deal with Heaven, and flex some muscles when the Sins got rowdy, and I could handle that. But fatherhood… I didn’t even believe it was possible until Charlie. I held her and I…Fuck, I was scared I’d mess it up. Mess her up. Like I mess everything else up.”

“So you left.” Alastor adds when Lucifer seems to lose his nerve to continue.

Lucifer squeezes his eyes shut. “No. She did. Way before Hell ever realized. Lil and I had a fight, and she left. She said…she said…”

“What did she say, Lucifer?”

“That I couldn't do it. I lacked the basic humanity to understand the sacrifice that came with being a parent, to understand…what she gave up to be a mother. She told me I would never be capable of making those sacrifices, of becoming the father Charlie deserved. Or being the King that Hell deserved.” 

Lucifer uncrosses his arms to hide his face in his palms. His blond hair falls from its style around his dark hands. His shoulders tremble. “Sacrifice…I sacrificed millions of those I was supposed to protect for my girl, the sinners, the weak and the damned, for her protection. And I would do it again, without hesitation. Because I lack humanity. So how can I be a good father when…”

The words carry the tell that either the alcohol or the emotions, or both, are getting the better of Lucifer’s speech. He stumbles at the finish and the last several sentences fall apart in a series of jagged syllables.

“Lucifer…”

“I’m the Devil.” He continues, slightly slurred, voice thick with unshed tears and skipping as he gasps out what might be centuries of pent up melancholy. “I’ve led armies and never raised my own sword. I am the Sin of Pride and I despise myself. I wear the crown and haven’t sat on my throne in centuries. Maybe longer. I’m a coward, a fraud, and more of a fool than you can ever know. So maybe you should reconsider if you actually want me parenting your daughter, Al. I don’t come well recommended.”

Alastor considers him. 

Self-pity is a flaw that he never has tolerated well in others. Oh woe is me! I’m in Hell and on fire! Oh no, I have only myself to blame and I’m sad now! Pfft, Hell is an opportunity to grasp one’s flaws and make them features! But the King of Hell has the ability to be, if not self-aware, confident in his image. To an annoying extent. So, Alastor realizes with some relief, self-pity is not the right word here.

Lucifer is being vulnerable.

Not much of an improvement, but at least Alastor can put a positive spin on it. Addressing one's failings is the first step toward self-improvement. Lenore, if she is indeed as powerful as Lucifer fears, will require guidance. Guidance that Alastor, self-aware enough himself to admit his limitations, recognizes he may need assistance with this.

After all, he is no angel, nor had he ever professed to be one.

“Five stars.” He says with quirked lips. Not a grin, or a grimace, but something genuine in his eternal smile.

“More like one.” Lucifer amends.

“The Morning Star.” Alastor returns, quirk growing soft and indulgent.

“Hmm.” Lucifer lifts his head. “It was a nice time, when that’s all I had to be. Simple. Honest. No one had any reason to be anything but what they were. I was the Morning Star. Father said there should be light, and I came shining through.”

Alastor does not often think of Lucifer’s ancient divinity. It is a bit of a mind trip to do so. A celestial being in a ridiculous ringleader persona. Cosmic powers used to make ducks, the wings of a seraphim used to reach the top shelf in the supply closet. Parlor tricks. Spectacle. Alastor usually would mock the futility or the fleeting nature of inherited grandeur, but the memory of Lucifer taking flight to storm Heaven stays his barbed tongue.

Lucifer had seen the creation of worlds. 

Lucifer had been in the Garden and watched humanity’s first steps, and first missteps. 

Lucifer had held out the apple to Eve.

Lucifer had first held Hellfire.

Lucifer had led armies against Heaven. 

Lucifer had squashed rebellions in his own realm.

Lucifer had remained King of Hell, among the Sins and demons, had overcome the scheming and powergrabs, for 10,000 years.

Lucifer was in Alastor’s bed.

“Motherhood.” Alastor says with a deep sigh. A bit of static catches in his throat and he coughs lightly into his fist to dislodge it. Lucifer, still hunched, looks up from under golden lashes at the delay. “Certainly not a natural state of affairs for me either.”

“I, too, never thought it possible. Unexpected, to say the very least.” He continues with a chuckle. “I told her so, upon the first formal conversation we held. Well, I held. Then I considered drowning her.” He laughs louder at Lucifer’s look of horror. “Best not tell Charlotte that tidbit. What I am saying, Sire, is that I too am a bit of a novice in this. I certainly do not find nurturing natural, nor did I ever experience a biological drive to continue my line upon that mortal coil. But I wonder…”

He trails off, deliberately. Lucifer wipes at his eyes as Alastor pretends to truly wonder, gazing up at the ceiling and tapping his boot on the floor.

“Such an astonishing child, with such undeniable potential and power, perhaps she is better suited with parents who lack the shackles of humanity. We are in Hell, afterall, and she is its princess. I see little value in humanity for her, my dear. Your little imps and Goetic nobility do quite…decently, considering their own lack of humanity.”

Lucifer nods slowly. 

“You really aren’t bad at this when you try. Being nice.” He says.

Alastor’s radio screeches with a bit of feedback.

“Take that back.” He demands.

Lucifer grins, sharp and mischievous, “Shant!” He decides. 

Alastor reaches out to the bedside table to reclaim his glass of champagne. He dumps the contents over Lucifer’s head.

“Hey!” He exclaims, giggling, and shakes his head like a dog. Champagne droplets flick over Alastor. Lucifer grabs the glass and fills it with a tap on the rim. He sips it before offering it to Alastor.

The pop of bubbles tickles Alastor’s tongue. It is a dry vintage. The taste of almonds and toast coat his inner cheeks and throat, and he can still feel the sharpness on his breath when he exhales.

“You really didn’t plan this.” Lucifer says absently. He takes another drink. 

This is all becoming terribly familiar when a small hand lands on Alastor’s knee.

“Lenore. Seducing me. That wasn’t a scheme.” He continues. His head cocks in the loose, wobbly way of one just leaving the definition of tipsy into drunk.

“Seduce you? Sire, I take offense to that!” Alastor pretends at such offense, straightening his spine, sitting primly, and knocking Lucifer’s hand from his person.

“You invited me to your room! Got me drunk on your moonshine!” Lucifer exclaims. 

“You did just fine getting yourself drunk on my moonshine, if that is what the kids are calling it these days.” 

Lucifer tackles Alastor. 

Almonds and apples. That’s the taste on Lucifer’s lips tonight. Intoxicating. Alastor drinks him in greedily. Lucifer is heavy on top, pressing down into Alastor, his hands exploring Alastor’s chest and shoulders before moving down. The muscles in Alastor’s abdomen tense up. Alert to the slight movement, Lucifer smoothes his hand over Alastor’s belly with a firm deliberateness, just above the belt, a clear statement of intention. 

Alastor can feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of his shirt. 

Fingers undo his belt, push buttons free of their captivity, and slip into Alastor’s waistband. 

Lucifer breaks their kiss. His eyes are hazy, glowing golden and shining with drink. His dark lips are quirked in delightful mischievity. 

“Let me worship you, my king.” He says in a low voice.

Alastor nods and cards his claws through Lucifer’s mussed hair.

The King slithers down the demon’s long body. Alastor adjusts so his legs are more solidly on the bed. In Lucifer’s state, he is more likely to fall off the bed than not as he is paying no attention to where he is heading. His teeth and lips are locked on Alastor’s neck. Sucking. Nibbling. His hips grind down into Alastor's belly, a thigh rubs into his groin.

The friction is pleasant, Alastor decides.

Before long, their jackets and vests have been discarded on the ground, and half the buttons on Alastor’s shirt are missing, along with his monocle. His lips throb from the rough treatment of Lucifer's tongue and teeth. Heat floods his cheek and he hopes he does not too much resemble a sunburnt tomato. He drags up a tendril of shadow and runs it along his face and neck, cooling and grounding himself as much as he is able in the face of Lucifer's eager attention.

Ravished, is, perhaps, an accurate descriptor of Alastor’s situation. 

Alastor strokes a finger down Lucifer’s face. The shadow tendril follows the touch and lightly loops around Lucifer's thin neck once, twice, and comes back up to trace dark lips once again.

“My fool.”

That sparks a series of reactions, the first being Lucifer’s removal, with a clumsy finger snap, of Alastor’s pants and under garments. The second was the curl of smoke that slipped from Lucifer’s mouth when he lets out a long shudder of breath against the shadow tendril. Finally, finally, Lucifer’s elbows brace on either side of Alastor’s narrow hips, holding himself up over the mildly interested cockstand.

“Mine.” The Fallen Angel declares and gives Alastor exactly zero seconds to refute the claim.

When Lucifer brushes his lips through the crimson treasure trail above Alastor’s groin, a small series of shocks tickles all the way down. His skin is a livewire. Oversensitive and electric. Then Lucifer licks at his cock with quick, short strokes and all the electricity gathers at that focal point.

It occurs to Alastor that Lucifer’s forked tongue is serpentine in behavior as well as appearance.

A whimper slips from his lips.

The sound drives Lucifer to double his efforts to snap and curl that lithe tongue around the entire length of Alastor’s stand.

Energy buzzes in his veins, built up in his blood. It is so different from the ichor that clogged his mind and ducts when his Eldritch powers activate. Everything speeds up. His body is tense, close to snapping under the pressure of sensation. But arousal also comes with a strange clarity that does not follow expectations set by dime store novels. Alastor is not swept away by his desires, or the thrum of heat in his blood, or the heady rush of passion.

Alastor is empowered by them.

He wonders if this is the more he never thought he’d experience with another. Rarely had he managed to produce arousal in solitude. Almost never has he felt the pull to slot his body with another, with the exception being a singular night last week when he was sloppy drunk on moonshine and vulnerability. Is this what the fuss is about?

Passion.

Connection.

Longing. 

He can see the appeal.

When he feels the fiery wetness of Lucifer’s mouth close in on him, he thrusts up, causing his seducer to choke and sputter.

He stumbles on his own breathe when Lucifer’s gaze meets his. A small, whimpering spat of frequency spills from his radio. 

Golden eyes invert.

One of Lucifer’s hands jerks up to grab one of Alastor's and press it into the mattress. Their fingers interlace. The other guide’s Alastor’s free hand to thread through blonde locks and wiggling it a bit, encouraging Alastor to hang on.

His breathing grows ragged. He hears the tombstone radio on his desk spark to life, jazz scat blasting out full volume. Lucifer sucks and licks, audibly pleased with present circumstances, moaning and humping his own hips into the mattress. A saxophone trills in the background. A trumpet blats. Cymbals crash and crash and crash. He can feel himself in Lucifer’s throat, he can feel Lucifer swallow, and thinks that maybe he can feel the fire that fills the Devil’s lungs on his cock. 

Alastor wonders how a bastard from Louisiana ended up with the Devil between his thighs.

Lucifer, the seducer, the original tempter, is quite competent in his role. Alastor may have to consider revising his review. Five stars. Flawless. So, so...Alastor’s muscles wind up so tight there is a real risk they might snap. Pressure builds up in his nethers, in his scrotum, and he thrusts up in Lucifer’s mouth with reckless abandon. Lucifer chokes again, gagging around Alastor’s length deliciously, and anchors himself flush against Alastor’s hips when Alastor tries to pull him off.  

The moment explodes.

His cockstand pulses hard as he orgasms. He can’t recall the last emission he had. Well before his death, he supposes. Here he finds scrambled thoughts and a brief loss of control as his hips jerk of their own volition. He sees a burst of stars behind his eyelids and a breathy laugh catches in his throat.

The Morning Star.

Lucifer’s lips are sharp with apples, almonds, and a new bitterness when they kiss again. Alastor steals Lucifer’s breath for his own and trades him ragged sighs. The tangled threads of want and desire eventually unravel into rational thought. His limbs are heavy and trembling in memory of Lucifer’s attention. 

Yes, Alastor can see the appeal.

He sneaks a hand up Lucifer’s shirt as they kiss. He feels the sweaty inferno beneath. He undoes his partner’s buttons with far more care than his had been treated. Leaning down, he licks a stripe from Lucifer’s smooth belly - absent a navel - to a pert black nipple. 

Lucifer moans and digs his fingers through Alastor’s hair, grabbing onto one of his antlers and pulling him up for another sloppy, teeth-clacking kiss.

Alastor’s ears prick at the sound of footsteps. 

The doorknob turns. 

He sends a wave of power to turn the lock, but he is too late.

The door opens.

“Hey, how was - Dad! Alastor! What the FUCK!”

---

Alastor and Lucifer sit on opposite ends of the couch, hands folded in their laps, heads bowed.

Charlie and Vaggie sit on the couch opposite. 

A coffee table divides the teams.

Alastor glances over at his ally. Lucifer’s face is a burnt orange with his embarrassment. He is thumping his feet nervously on the ground. He rocks back and forth, and it is obvious the reason he has chosen to fold his hands is to keep them from shaking.

Coward.

But this is Alastor’s chosen coward and he supposes he will stand by his man, as Ms. Wynette implores him to do. 

“I’m not mad.” Charlie states. “I’m disappointed.”

Lucifer flinches.

I certainly sympathize, Alastor thinks with an eyeroll towards his so-called teammate. He waits a long minute for the King of Hell to grow a spine to respond to his daughter. Then recalls that the fool has been unable to do so for at least two centuries and lifts his own chin in defiance.

“My dear, certainly you are aware your father and I are going steady?” Alastor asks, rather rhetorically but expects the Princess will answer anyway.

“Yes, and I fully support your relationship!” Charlie insists.

Alastor lifts his leg deliberately to cross it over the other. He refolds his hands over them and cocks his head with a sly smile.

“So, dear girl, you can expect your father and I will be intimate.” 

“Alastor!” Lucifer whisper-shouts. 

His face blushes so golden it literally lights up, casting a shadow of his hunched form onto the couch behind him. 

“Yeah, maybe don’t.” Vaggie says, expression dead pan.

Indignant fury sparks within Alastor, causing his static to shriek like a record scratch. He lets it ring out freely for a moment before he dampens the sound by snapping his head back to center.

“I daresay that is not very sex positive of you. Was that not a theme for therapy week nigh on six months ago?” Alastor points out.

“It was, and we are, it’s just, with you and my dad, it’s…different.” Charlie shifts in her seat, clearly uncomfortable, avoiding eye contact, her own cheeks colored with embarrassment. 

Alastor fights back a snarl by the literal skin of his teeth. “Charlotte, I will say this once and once only, if your father and I chose to have sexual relations, we will do so without your input.” He says, low and static-rich.

Lucifer buries his face in his hands.

“Right, Lucifer, darling?” Alastor asks. Mostly to force the stupid little man into some sort of action here. 

His King, his chosen partner, his lover, mumbles a muffled affirmation.

“Yeah? You two think so?” Vaggie asks, sarcasm dripping in every syllable. “Because we are helping babysit your kid from the first time you had sexual relations." She performs air quotes around the words. A touch much. "Forgive us for wanting to prevent the next one.” 

Alastor’s record squeals again and he scrambles this time to right it promptly.

Lucifer leans forward and folds himself in half, forehead to knees, hands clasped on the back of his head, and groans. 

Charlie coughs into her fist.

“See, Dad, Alastor, we just want to make sure you are safe.” She says, far too calm and collected for this conversation.

Alastor begins gathering shadows beneath the coffee table, ready to make a swift exit.

“We have condoms at the elevator entrances and down in the lobby,” Charlie adds. “You should put some in your dresser drawer for easy access.”

“Charlotte, please-”

“I also have some sponges in my office that may work for you. They are meant to be inserted to block and kill sperm. You can use them in addition to the condoms for increased contraception.”

“Please stop. I beg you.” 

Alastor had underestimated Charlie’s ability to torture. She simply has more subtle, but truly effective, methods.

“I think using two forms of protection is best, since, you know, Al got pregnant from a one night stand, so you likely are highly fertile.” Charlie states, matter-of-factly, nearly cheerfully.

A sadist. She’s an actual sadist. How had Alastor not noticed? Perhaps the Hazbin Hotel has been Hell’s version of H.H. Holme’s murder castle all along.

“Very well, you win. Lucifer, I regret to inform you that I’ve decided we should go our separate ways. If you’ll excuse me.” Alastor pulls the shadows to him and almost succeeds when Lucifer grabs him back to full corporation. 

“Not a chance you’re getting out of this, asshole.” Lucifer hisses.

Charlie sighs. “I know it’s embarrassing. But it’s important to have safe sex, especially in a new relationship. The sexually transmitted infections in Hell are-”

“- nasty.” Vaggie finishes with a smirk. “The experience of childbirth is probably not pleasant either. Right, Alastor?”

“Vaggie is right. I don’t need another sibling just yet!” Charlie smiles, taking a stab at a bit of humor to lighten the mood.

Lucifer flops back into the couch. “If it were that easy, you’d probably have hundreds by now, kiddo.” He mutters under his breath.

“What?” Charlie asks.

Lucifer jolts back up. “What? Uh, nothing! Nothing! Ha ha, just…nothing.” He swallows thickly, and chokes on his own spittle. Charlie continues to stare at him expectantly. He looks at Alastor for help.

In a bit of petty retaliation for Lucifer’s earlier uselessness, Alastor inspects his fingernails with feigned interest.

“It’s just not as easy as sex, boom bam, baby.” Lucifer mumbles out.

“Okay. So, what else is there?” Vaggie asks.

“Dad? Dad, what else is there?” Charlie follows up when Lucifer doesn’t answer immediately.

Lucifer’s fingers tug at a loose string on the sofa arm. His lips move silently, as if testing out an explanation before adding his vocal chords to the mix. He still fails to give an answer to the women’s question after several long moments.

“Lucifer.” Alastor says calmly, putting a hand on his shoulder. “What else is there? What haven’t you told me?”

“It’s what I wanted to talk about upstairs before…” Lucifer trails off with a twirling movement of his hand to reference the before. “It’s why I, um, confronted you back when I found out about Lenore.”

“When you attacked me.” Alastor corrects.

“Yeah, sorry, again, about that.” Lucifer says, cringing, eyes closed. “I really did think you were up to something. That she was part of some scheme… because it shouldn’t be possible to get an ‘oops’ pregnancy between us. It took Lilith nearly six thousand years to figure it out. And it wasn’t just, you know, sex. It took much, much more than that.”

“Dad?” Charlie’s eyes are wide and shining. There is a dark tone to Lucifer’s words. For a moment, it seems that he won’t continue but then he shudders, steels himself, and starts to speak.

“Charlie, it… your mom and I wanted you so badly. We tried everything over a long, long time. It wore your mom down, and she… she resorted to drastic measures to get you,” Lucifer breaks off, wiping roughly at his eyes and sniffing. “It’s not something I would have approved of, if I’d known at the time.”

Charlie stands up and kneels by Lucifer.

“Tell me.”

“Power.” He whispers. “We visited your Aunt Bel and it was a problem with power imbalance between us. It couldn’t come from me, she had to get it somewhere else. I think she made a lot of deals around that time. She owned a lot of souls, sweetie. She never owned souls, not in ten thousand years, and then she had so many. So, uh, one thing was power. Um, a spell. She must have got it from the library, and maybe she destroyed the book because I can’t find it. But she told me part of it. She had to do something for the spell, she….she….fuck, she just did something, sweetie, something not good.”

He stops and looks at Alastor. His golden eyes betray the pain and fear he feels. They plead for Alastor to give him permission to stop the tale, to hold back the secret behind locked lips.

“Lucifer.” Alastor prods softly.

“Sacrifice.” He whispers. “Human sacrifice. A living baby.”

Charlie falls back on her heels. Horror twists her features, so much she looks as though she may actually be ill. Vaggie jumps up to take her by the shoulders to pull her into a tight hug.

“I didn’t know.” Lucifer adds quickly, voice breaking as he pushes through. “Not until after. But Lillith said we were never to have sinners make sacrifices to Charlie, like they used to for favors, in the way olden days, because of it. That it would be dangerous.” 

“And this wasn’t information you thought was important for Charlie to know?” Vaggie snaps. Her chin is buried in Charlie’s thick blonde hair where the Princess has buried her face in her girlfriend’s chest.

Lucifer shakes his head vehemently. “I didn’t want her to know. I didn’t want to know. It’s too, too horrible. It wasn’t her fault. Sweetie, it’s not your fault. I love you. I love you so much.” He breaks off in a choked sob.

“I haven’t been to Earth since my demise,” Alastor says, mind racing in spirals with this new information. “I performed no spell, I sacrificed no humans, and I certainly didn’t intend to conceive. We had a spontaneous, drunken fuck! Nothing more complicated than that. I wouldn’t…” His voice wavers between his radio filter and whatever strangled sound that comes out unfiltered from his closed up throat.

He can hear the hysteria in his voice.

“Hang on, Alastor,” Vaggie cuts in. “No one’s accusing you of anything. Lucifer, sir, how could Alastor have gotten pregnant without that spell?”

“It’s not possible,” 

“Bullshit. It’s possible because it happened. How?” 

“I don’t know! I really don’t know!” Lucifer exclaims, desperation rising.

“Everyone, calm down!” Charlie shouts.

She has slipped into her demonic form, and flames cast new shadows on the floor. Alastor considers them, and rejects the revived impulse to slip away. Instead, he reaches over to take Lucifer's hand and squeezes it. The look his angel gives him is pathetic.

It's even more pathetic how it twists Alastor's heart.

Charlie breathes in deep and long, visibly forcing her horns and blazing eyes to return to her default setting. 

"I think I need some time to think about this." She decides.

"Sweetie-"

"I'm going to bed." She interrupts her father.

Vaggie helps her to her feet and the two leave in silence.

"Well, that certainly was awkward." Alastor says finally.

And catches the King as he crumples into his arms.

"She'll be okay, Sire. Shhhh, she'll be okay. There there, mon ange. Shhhh."

---

Alastor had never been caught.

Fifteen years, and thrice as many kills, and he never had the displeasure of being brought to task for his behavior.

He must have grown careless. 

Overconfident. 

Prideful. And he knew, from long Sundays spent in church, and his grandmere’s accented reading of the Holy Book in the stuffy drawing room, that it goeth before the fall. 

“Alastor, what is this?” 

His mother held up a pocket watch by the chain. It spun slowly. The light caught on its surface and reflected gold around the room. Alastor resisted the urge to snatch the timepiece from her grasp. It would draw attention to the rising terror in his chest.

“An old watch of your late husband’s, I think. I hardly use the drawers in here.” Alaster lied smoothly.

This was his office, and it had been for fifteen years. Of course he uses the damn desk.

“No. I don’t think it is.” She shook her head. She stopped the watch’s spinning with a finger, and laid it on the digit like she was putting it on display. With her other hand, carefully lowering the chain into her palm, she flicks it open.

Alastor had never done so.

He stepped closer, haltingly, as if in a nightmare, and the dying light of the sun catches the inscription within.

“To My Reggie, From Your Marie.” His mother reads calmly. 

Alastor’s heart nearly stopped.

“You said he left without a word.” 

“He did, Maman. I…received it in the post.” His voice wavered. 

“No. Don’t lie to me.” She lets the watch fall into her lap. “There are others in here. Alastor. Why do you have so many pocket watches? And the cigarette boxes? You don’t smoke. You have a watch. I gave it to you. And these cufflinks? They are initialled. Most have initials. Not yours. Alastor, why do you have these?”

“I found them.” He said quickly. Too quickly. His breathing had grown ragged.

“Where are these men, Alastor?” 

“I don’t know, Maman. Please, I don’t know.”

His mother looked up at him. Her eyes shone with tears. Her lower lip trembled.

“Did you hurt these men, Alastor?” She asked, her voice soft.

“Maman…” His own voice was ragged.

No, no, no. This could not be happening. 

“My late husband’s silver flask is in here.”

“Maman…please…”

“But why is my daddy’s pocket watch in here? In here with these…keepsakes?” 

Alastor let out an anguished sob then. “Maman, it was an accident! I didn’t mean to!” He cried.

His maman did break then. She crumpled to the floor and screamed. Terrible, heartbreaking screams. Her maid ran in, and Cook, and so many others that Alastor felt trapped in his own office. They drug her out, kicking and screaming, and her voice carried through the house.

“You monster! You devil! How could you? Not my boy, no! Alastor, no! Oh god! Oh god, no! I knew it! I knew it! Oh god! Daddy! Daddy! Oh, it’s my fault, it’s my fault! Demon! Demon! I knew he was a demon and I suckled him at my breast! Oh, no! Please god forgive me!”

They got her down eventually, with the help of a healthy dose of laudanum. The doctor assured Alastor that such mental exhaustion was normal in women of her age. He advised Alastor to keep her calm, to speak of happy times, and to avoid whatever trigger had caused her episode.

His mother woke and was calm.

Alastor spoke of happy times.

She refused to speak.

Alastor read from the bible to her.

His mother turned away from him, and stared at the wall.

For days, Alastor and the staff begged her to eat, to speak, to take a walk in the garden. Alastor whispered that he would repent, promised her that he would marry and have the grandchildren she longed for, that they could visit Europe, or go to New York to see the sights. 

He tried to hold her hand only once.

She stared at him.

She pulled his hand closer.

Alastor felt hope, thinking she might kiss his knuckles like she used to, but just for a moment.

He had forgotten the scars. 

Scratches, some of them scabs, others long healed. He usually wore gloves, even around the house. One of his quirks, Maman had said.

“Oh, Alastor, your hands! My god, look at your hands!” She whispered, horrified, and began to cry.

Alastor found her the next morning, the empty bottle of laudanum near her cold, pale hand.

---

Alastor receives an invitation to the next meeting of the Overlords three days later. He is nearly relieved to have an excuse to leave the hotel. To say the breakfast and dinner tables have been awkward would be an understatement. Charlie refuses to meet his eye. Vaggie glares her eye at him, clearly blaming him for the rift between father and daughter, though how Alastor has this one pinned on him is beyond his rational, common sense understanding of the world. 

Overlord Alastor, the Radio Demon.

It is nice to be recognized as someone other than Lenore's mother or Lucifer's beau. He worked so hard for the title. Every moment of a half century in Hell had been devoted to his own promotion. Each soul in his possession was a precious treasure. The ones he tore to shreds, the screams on the airwaves, the shows that gave him his name, they were his declarations. He survived and he thrived. He had achieved more than any other demon in the history of Hell, he was sure. His image was a cause for fear. Sinners respected him out of fear. Overlords did the same, for they were equally his prey, the big game.

You are cordially invited to attend a meeting of Hell's Sovereign Overlords at the residence of Overlord Carmilla Carmine at 12:00pm today. Per our last conversation, your attendance is expected as there is much to discuss. The Princess Lenore is invited to attend should proper childcare arrangements be unavailable given the time constraints of this invitation.

Overlord Carmine looks forward to your attendance.

As if he would bring his child into that den of wolves. 

Lucifer, reading the paper over his shoulder, having conjured a stool behind Alastor's own at the Front Desk, promptly announces that he and Lenore will be having a daddy-daughter afternoon. 

"I should refuse for the insult of such short notice." He hisses to himself. 

Lucifer's arms slither around his broad shoulders, and a pale cheek presses against his temple.

"Do you think its a trap?" Lucifer whispers into his ear. It twitches from the whisper's vibrations and Alastor suppresses a shudder. Lucifer's arms tighten a bit more around his shoulders.

"No. Carmine is not fool enough for that." 

"Will you wear my pin, just in case? I can be there in an instant if something goes wrong."

Alastor dissolves into shadows and reforms in front of the desk. Lucifer windmills his arms to stay standing upright. His wings spread out in a blur of red and white to assist his descent to the floor. Before he can reach Alastor, however, the demon slithers even further along the floor to reform next to Angel Dust, sitting on a lobby couch with Lenore, braiding the baby's long curls into some travesty of a hair-do. 

"Al?" Lucifer calls out.

Alastor summons his microphone to his hand. "I best be off if I am to make the meeting in time! Goodness, barely an hour to make it across the city! There truly are no manners in Hell!" He scratches off a dried bit of baby spittle from his collar. He desperately wants to at least change his shirt, but that would require returning to his room, and that will almost certainly lead to a very awkward conversation with his beau.

And haven't they had enough awkward conversations to meet this week's quota?

"Just...keep your wits about you." Lucifer sighs.

He walks by Alastor with noticeably slouched shoulders and slumps onto the sofa next to Angel Dust. Lenore reaches out for her father, barely giving Angel time to twist a band around the crown of braids on top of her head, and lets out a long babble of vowels and popping sounds once settled on his lap. Lucifer encourages it with several tastefully placed "ahh, I see"s and "tell me more about that"s.

Alastor checks his watch. If he doesn’t leave now, he will be late. It being his first Overlord meeting in months, he should make a good impression. 

“Fascinating chat, but I really must be off. Ta!”

"Bye." Angel says absently, angling his phone to take a video of the King absurd mannerisms and the baby's happy babbles.

His feet won’t move.

“Uh, bye?” Angel repeats.

Alastor stays put. His ears pin down to this skull, and he can feel the buzzing of his static around his antlers and in the sensitive hair around his ears.

“You okay, babe?” Lucifer asks, looking up from his 'conversation' with their actual baby.

Alastor nods.

And does not move.

"Ah, yes, I simply need to say farewell to Lenore. Goodbye, my darling, Maman will be home before your nap."

Alastor pecks Lenore on the cheek, then does the same to Lucifer’s temple, and narrowly avoids receiving the same from Angel Dust, seated on the couch next to Lucifer. Angel Dust receives a wack! to the side of the head for such presumption.

“Ow! Ya gonna let him do that, Short King?” He asks, rubbing his head.

“The alternative is me hitting you.” Lucifer answers smoothly. 

“Yeah, yeah. I saw you turn Adam’s face into ground meat. No thanks.”

Alastor thinks it best to remind the Spider Demon of his hold on the Short King. He bends back down and captures Lucifer’s smiling mouth into a long, drawn out, close-mouthed kiss. He lets his gaze linger on Lucifer’s lips, keeping his lids low and smile lazily indulgent. 

Angel Dust’s mouth hangs open, gold tooth glinting from the bright screen in his hand.

“Ya know. I can take a hit. C’mere Smiles-”

Unfortunately for the demon, Lenore has developed something of a fascination with shiny objects of late. As the adults in the room ignored her, focused on their discussion regarding PDA and “sharing with the class,” she noticed the gold tooth in the Spider Demon’s mouth. She reaches for it. Too far, and her father grabs her outstretched hand back to center. She tries to lean in, reaching again, only for the attempt to end in similar disappointment.

She furrows her tiny brow. 

With a wail, and another fling of her arm, she reaches out. 

A sliver of light, a spark, similar to a failed flick of a lighter, shoots from her finger.

“FUCKING SHITBALLS!”  “Fuck! Hold still!” “Lucifer, was that-” “Angie! You okay?!”

Lenore adds a prolonged ear-splitting cry to the chaos of noise.

“It burns! Aw, Hell, there’s a hole in my fucking lip!”

“What is going on in here?” 

Alastor scoops Lenore into his arms as Lucifer examine’s Angel Dust’s injury. Lenore sniffles against her mother’s jacket, tears and snot darkening the crimson fabric. Her tiny hand grips Alastor’s for comfort and he lifts it to bestow a kiss on her knuckles. 

“Your defense of my honor is appreciated, my darling, but we reserve injury for our enemies.” He murmurs into her hair.

Angel Dust, chin held in both of Lucifer’s small palms - hmm, maybe the little hands are genetic - snorts, “you lit’raly choked me out last week, ya hypocrite.” 

“You experienced pain, my dear fellow, which I share generously with enemies and friends alike. Injury is different. I did not crush your jugular . I did not rip out your voicebox, though it might have been a mercy to my own ears. I did not snap your neck. I did-”

“Thank you, Alastor.” Lucifer interrupts. “Hang on, Angel. This is gonna hurt like a bitch. Holy wounds do.”

He puts a finger on either side of the burn above Angel’s lip and pinches.

“I’ve had wooooooooooorse, oh you motherfucker.”

A tiny firefly blinks into existence. Lucifer palms the little ball of light and conjures a jar to hold it. He places the jar on his vacated spot on the couch. Alastor sets Lenore down next to it, securing her upright with the support of two decorative pillows.

Her eyes follow the zig zag movement of the bug in the jar.

“You had fair warning. It will leave a mark if you don’t heal it now.” Lucifer conjures a mirror for his patient’s review.

Angel turns his head this way and that as he admires his reflection. “If I don't?" He asks.

Lucifer shrugs. “It stays.” 

The mark is nothing more than a dot, just off the top of his upper lip. A burn mark, obvious but not dramatic. 

“I’m gettin’ Marilyn vibes.” He says at last with approval. His wide mouth stretches out, sly and what Alastor supposes passes for flirtatious these days. “Whattaya think, Huskie, baby?”

Husk, having come at a run from the bar, where he had been wiping down glassware, scowls.

“I think you’re an idiot.” He grumbles. But a deep crimson peaks through his furred cheeks and he can’t seem to take his eyes off said idiot.

“Uh-huh. I’m keeping it!”

Alastor taps the jar with his cane. The tiny firefly bounces against the glass. Its light flickers between bright white and a familiar blue. 

“Pretty bit of magic.” He comments.

“Yeah, but very ouchy to you sinners. Holy Light gets nasty if left to fester inside. Like a blood poison.” Lucifer explains. 

“Great. The kid can kill us.” Husker says.

Alastor leans on his staff, “Of course she can! She takes after her old man! Born to torture and maim!” 

"Probably best to keep my number on speed dial while I work on making a conduit. A bracelet with a bit of brimstone should help soak up most of the holy light until she can get a handle on it. Charlie had something similar for Hellfire when she was a teen." Lucifer explains. He shudders and shakes his head.

“Too excited for her own good?” Alastor inquires, picturing the overly enthusiastic princess bouncing about with her dreams of rainbows and hugs.

“Let’s just say her first boyfriend did not have a good time.”

Lucifer, Husk, and Angel share a look of horrific sympathy. 

Alastor shrugs.

Sounds like a good enough time for him. 

“And this little fellow?” He taps the side of the jar again with a clink!

Lenore’s eyes follow the bug’s back and forth movement.

“Probably release him the bayou. He won’t do much harm on his own, but we don’t need residents accidentally burned by a holy lightning bug.” 

“Like the dragonflies.” Alastor muses.

“Or Lenore will just reabsorb the power.” Lucifer shrugs. “Holy Light is funny like that. It doesn’t just disappear down here, and it needs a host once it leaves Heaven. Bugs work for now.”

“Law of conservation of energy!” Angel nods in understanding.

Husk and Lucifer stare at the Pornstar like particularly stupid owls.

Alastor sends a smattering of applause, a slow clap to a greater ovation, in a particularly well-timed bit of humor.

“Yeah.” Lucifer agrees, still dumbfounded by the combination of words spoken by the same demon whose vocabulary consists primarily of slurs and sex industry terms.

Angel rolls his eyes and flops down on the sofa. “I ain’t dumb, ya know. Lots you don’t know about Angel Dust. Wanna find out, pussy cat?” He winks at Husker.

The Bartender shakes himself out of his stupor and mumbles an excuse about slicing up lemons.

Alastor feet still don't move from his spot.

His anxiety buzzes in the static around him.

He rocks on his feet, uncharacteristically fidgety, and stares at Lenore with a pained heart. His chest physically hurts. He tries to swallow down the lump in his throat. It stays stubbornly put. He clears his throat but that just draws Lenore's attention to him and her smile makes it so much harder to take that first step away from her.

He has never left her of his own choice. 

“She’ll be here when you get back, Smiles.” Angel Dust says softly. “An hour or two with daddy, maybe another game a’ target practice with Auntie Angel, gimme s'more freckles, and you’ll be back for supper.” 

Alastor holds his position for a few seconds more before giving a stiff nods. He collects what scraps remain of his pride and uses them to straighten his spine. With a thump of his cane against the floor, he shouts out a final Ta! and stalks out the door into the thick, sulphureous air of the Pride Ring to attend a meeting of the Sovereign Overlords.

What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter 23

 

Alastor arrives on time afterall. He throws open the door just as the clock chimes the hour. The other Overlords are seated already. Heads turn to take him in, the star of the hour, the name on their lips. For nearly a century, a name to pay attention to: the Radio Demon. 

The atmosphere in the room shifts as Alastor’s smile widens nearly to his hairline. 

Click clack click clack click clack.

His heels strike the polished linoleum in precise, measured steps. No one cowers, or flinches, but Alastor does not expect that of this audience. 

Rosie smiles. The hollows of her eyes betray her worry.

He takes the open seat at the end of the long table, opposite Camille Carmine, poised and ready for action.

“Radio Demon.” Carmine greets, voice level, inclining her head slightly in acknowledgement, not enough to be mistaken for a bow or even respect.

An echoed greeting ripples down the table: “Radio Demon.” “Alastor” “King’s Whore”

He notes and ultimately ignores the insult hidden in the din. There is a fine line that divides defending one’s honor and allowing oneself to be provoked. Alastor prefers his actions, and reactions, to be his own. He has been so impulsive, of late, and this is no place to lose control.

He removes his monocle, huffs a warm puff of breath to fog up the lens, and makes a show of conjuring a monogrammed hankie to buff it. He replaces it a hum, lazily surveying the room with an obvious swivel of his head. 

“Carmine. Ensemble. Apologies for nearly missing the show. It seems my ticket was stand-by! But look at this! An absence in our assembly. Lucky me to take his seat! Where is our dear picture box? Turning his knobs? Adjusting his antenna? Finger on the button? A private broadcast, perhaps?”

“Jealous? That was almost sexy, Radio Star. Mmm, Video fucked the Radio Star. Yes, mmm mmm, that’s what I call a show.” Valentino chuckles, the sound dark and deep in his chest. 

Pink smoke curls around his head and hat in a perfect tinsel twist. His disgusting insect inspired legs are propped over his chair arm, groin on display. His posture screams relaxed but Alastor - prey demon with prey instincts - can sense danger from the Vee faction, partial as it is. 

Velvette’s manic stare is extra devious today. Her voluminous pigtails bounce with her exaggerated snickers and tap-tap-tap-ing on her cellular device. She holds out the phone, sticks out her tongue, and continues the finger assault on the screen. 

BA-BLOOP!

Ahhhhh! 

Valentino lifts his own cellular device and snickers again. “Bitch couldn’t take it.” He says. His thick shades cover his eyes, but his head shift towards Alastor gives the impression of assessment.

Both dress in complimentary heart themed attire, sliced tastefully and liberally from neck to shoe, scandalous, flamboyant, and - even Alastor would be forced to admit under torture - eyecatching. Val ruins the effect with his pimp coat, but Val ruins very nearly everything anyway, in Alastor’s correct opinion.

“As usual, to the Vees’ tragic disappointment, I have standards.” Alastor replies to the comment previously addressed to him, chin propped on the back of his hand.

“My compliments on your choice of sugar daddy.” Valentino flicks his long cigarette. The ash glows pink on the table before it fades away.

A few stifled laughs nearly draw Alastor’s attention from the Moth. 

“My what now?” He asks.

“Come now, sugar baby, we all saw you get your skinny ass kicked by the First Man. Fled with your tail tucked between those thighs. So, you whored yourself to the king for a bit of protection. No judging! But, baby, next time, hide under daddy’s covers and we can scream.”

Alastor steeples his fingers. “I am always looking for new screams for my radio show! Now that's a broadcast worth having!”

The room darkens; just a tint of shadow against the overhead fluorescents. With a casual thrum of his claws on the table, the shadows swirl into the shape of an elongated moth on the table. A flick and the shadow moth’s head separates from its body, landing in front of Velvette.  A cheap bit of theatrics. A bit of dark mimicry of Velvette’s memorable performance once upon a time.

Carmine, at last, thumps her gigantic fist on the table. 

Alastor calls back his shadows. The moth vanishes entirely. He blinks with exaggerated innocence at the demon down the table.

“Enough. All of you. We have much to discuss,” Carmine puts iron in the words, using the kind of tone that brooks no argument.

The air, alive and snapping with the energy of a dozen on-edge Overlords, is thickened to a veritable soup with long-standing rivalries and hidden agendas. Carmine’s hard gaze locks on Alastor, commanding his attention. “Let us address your proximity to the royal family, Alastor. Your relationship with the King-”

“Is private.” Alastor’s teeth slice through her sentence with a click! and grind it to shreds between clenched teeth.

Carmine opens her palms, shrugging, ultimately unphased. “Now it’s public. You share a child.” She says.

Velvette leans back in her chair, tips of her toes balancing on the edge of the table. “Share a bed.” She says, 

A tense beat. Val leans forward, cigarette nearly setting the Overlord to his left ablaze as he gestures widely, “Imagine the pillow talk!”

“Imagine the scorch marks,” Velvette cackles, a wicked grin curling her painted lips.

“Yum,” Val purrs, “I do enjoy a little fireplay.”

“As I was saying,” Carmine interrupts. “The King of Hell has asked the Sovereign Overlords of Hell to pledge their loyalty to the Crown. He offers his protection for our arms, as I understand it. I have, as have others at this table. Have you, Radio demon?”

Alastor blinks, genuinely caught off guard. 

“Thou hath risen through shadows and blood, of thy enemies and thy friends. T’would be folly to ignore such.” Zestial adds, positioned at Carmine’s right hand.

“Zestial is right. You have built a name on taking down bigger targets. The King of Hell is at the top.”

“Is he?” Alastor tips his head. “I had not noticed. With me he is just, Lucifer, father, partner, ally. Same as you. Well, on the lattermost. Though I suppose you would be more his subjects, hmm?”

“Alastor!” Rosie hisses.

He shrugs. “Subjects under his protection,” he amends.

“That is the point being made, Alastor. You set yourself apart from your fellow sinners. Do you aim for the crown?” 

He can admire a woman who gets to her point.

Alastor’s grin feels thin. “What a question! I’d love to profess my endless devotion to His Majesty, but you wouldn’t believe me, now would you? If I admit to treachery, plotting regicide, I sign my own death warrant. So, there’s no good answer for your purpose, is there?”

“His death puts your kid on the throne.” Zeezi barks out.

How interesting! The tertiary characters are getting dialogue too!

“It puts Princess Charlotte on the throne. My kid is an infant, and presently unable to sit unaided, much less hold orb and sceptre.”

“You could kill her too!” Zeezi points out.

“A proper coup! Aces!” 

“Alastor!” Rosies hisses again.

“Where doth thou stand?” Zestial inquires. His ancient voice carries down the table, a skitter of spiders and howl of wind in the undertone. Alastor can see a hundred glowing green eyes on the reflection of the table.

The blink at him, and Alastor can see the eyes are not the Ancient Overlord’s at all, but those of the souls he holds in chains.

The special effects are truly top notch!

Alastor taps his lips against his steepled fingers. “I stand for my daughter, its princess. I stand for myself, an Overlord of Hell. I stand with Hell. And, yes, I stand with Lucifer, the King, to meet all these.” He declares. Quite succinctly, if he does say so himself.

Velvette slams two palms on the table, lifting herself to her feet, and stares down her colleagues with a look of utter disgust.

“Who the fuck cares? As usual, this is a joke. Waste of time. Lucifer is old news. Hell needs to move forward.”

Carmine’s claws dig into the table, denting the surface. Her lips rise in an ugly snarl. 

“Jumping ahead of the agenda. Impatient. At least you are consistent, Velvette.”

“Nah, bitch! The Vees stay ahead of the game! It just seems such a folly-” She lowers her voice an octave, mocking Zestial’s cadence with insulting exaggeration. “- to trust De-lu-lucifer. Does he stand for us? He let us get murked for centuries. Of course, that was the arrangement.”

She reaches into her jacket and pulls out a familiar scroll. Alastor does not need to read it to know what it says. He sees the looping cursive of Lucifer’s red signature. 

“What is this?” Carmine picks up the paper and scans it, razor brows sharpening with each line.

Velvette smirks. “Some piping hot fucking tea is what it is.” Her body nearly vibrates with excitement. This overlord feeds on drama. She thrives on gossip and betrayal. 

“The Exterminations. The King bargained with Heaven to save the Princess.” Carmine says and the words fall like a nuclear bomb in the room.

"He let the angels in." Velvette adds.

Alastor had thought, when the King of Hell failed to show for any of the exterminations that it had been rather obvious he was complicit, but, of course, he must consider his audience. 

The Overlords shout over one another. They grab the paper from each other’s hands, read it out loud at increasing volumes. Lucifer’s name is thrown about. Charlie’s name is drug through the same mud. 

Lenore, referred to as Lucifer’s ‘new brat’, is brought up. Of course, she would be. A Morningstar Princess. A baby receiving the backlash of her father’s sins.

Alastor stands. He slams his staff onto the ground. A flash of light and a crash of cymbals does the trick of getting everyone to shut the hell up.

He taps his staff twice more to silence the particularly stupid. “The King negotiated that for a single day annually we must fight for our continued existence. Heaven would have us all slaughtered, down to the very last wretched sinner, if given the opportunity. As lovely as that may sound, I prefer a chance in Hell. All compromise comes with a cost.”

“We paid that price.” Velvette shouts, fist raised. 

There is a shout of agreement from the crowd. Hive mind. Cowards.

“And Lucifer wants to protect us now? Fucker never even came out of his fancy palace until his precious princess got in the line of fire. Now he offers protection? I’m not stupid enough to buy that load of bullshit. Pass.” Velvette swipes her phone in an arc, recording the chaos in the long conference, black gums showing from the width of her smile. 

“Protection from the King. Must we too offer our bodies, as well as our loyalty? Mm? A harem of overlord bitches. ” Val chuckles darkly. 

Alastor snarls, joints preparing to pop. It is only the teeny-tiny voice that keeps him rational, reminding him that starting a turf war in a room full of overlords is a bad idea, that he holds himself together.

But he is not entirely friendless here.

“Did ya forget that Heaven did the killing? Yeah, I got the same offer from those feathered fucks as you. But I stand against Heaven. I am a demon. I don’t know who the rest of you think you are.” Rosie shouts, hand on hip, a lone voice supporting Alastor as he swims against the tide.

“Over it. What I am is over it.” Velvette flips an insulting finger in Rosie’s general direction. “I say it’s time for a change in leadership.” 

She leaves without giving anyone a chance to have the last word, Val in her wake, pink smoke in his.

Alastor glares down the remaining fools at the table. 

(with Rosie excepted)

He raises his staff and points it at each in an arc, pantomiming Velvette’s movement with her phone, delighting with an echo of the Radio Demon of decades past to see the flinches a few can’t contain.

“You’d swear loyalty to those who will not even spit on the fire that burns you,” Alastor growls. “The same ones who slaughtered your souls… who weakened you.”

Zestial, and the other overlords, look to their unofficial leader for the next move.

Carmine does not look away from Alastor.

“Meeting adjourned. We need time to adjust to this new information, and no good decision comes from a place of surprise.” She says. 

Neutral. 

Unreadable.

Zestial nods solemnly. “Agreed.”

Idiots. They all are idiots. He seethes at the insult to Lenore, to Lucifer, to Charlie. His. They dared speak against what is his. The feeling festers in a place where his temper had once been a furnace. He had thought, foolishly, that motherhood had cooled that. 

Shame is fodder to that fire. Not for her. Never for her. But because he had bowed. After a century clawing up the ash-coated stairs of Hell, a century of hard work, looking out for number one, the only one who mattered, himself. No, he had aligned himself, publicly, vocally, on the side of the Morningstars.

He had misweighed the odds. That much was clear. The odds may be against him. He may finally have made the wrong gamble. Lenore, an open secret, now a pawn in a celestial game of politics. He clenched his jaw until the bone ached. He should shred their souls. The room should have run red and black with blood and shadows. He had done worse to those far less deserving. But the odds had been against him. Even if Rosie had agreed to an act of suicide, he could not have taken on a room of overlords. So the insult passed and his silence was complacence.  It might have been a game, once. He could have plotted revenge, had the insult been to him alone. Had he only had to be the Radio Demon.

A hand on his shoulder calls him back to Hell. 

The room is nearly cleared out. 

“Come on, honey, let’s get you back home.” Rosie says with a strained smile.

---

The mood of the hotel is somber when he returns, despite the thick throng of residents around the bar. They turn to stare of the two overlords when they enter. Then, as a collective, look in different directions. 

“Hey, Smiles!” Angel Dust calls, breaking through the crowd.

“Hello, my good man!” Alastor greets with forced cheer. 

“Annnnnnd hey Al’s…friend?” 

Rosie gives a half curtsey. 

“Where are my manners? Angel Dust, this is my dearest friend and most bloodthirsty overlord, Rosie! And, Rosie, this is Angel Dust, first resident of the Hazbin Hotel, quasi-staff member, and the best jazzercise instructor this side of the pentagram!”

A year or so ago, Angel Dust would have followed this up this introduction with famous porn star. Today, he smiles shyly and brushes back his bangs.

“Aww, gonna make me blush, Al. Uh, c’mere a sec?” He lowers his voice and leans bravely close to Alastor’s ear. Alastor knows from experience the nasal edge carries, so Rosie will hear every word. “Short King got a letter. He went real quiet-like, and Charlie took him and the kid upstairs. They ain’t come down in an hour. Then one came for you.”

He takes a bent, slightly crumpled envelope from his jacket pocket. 

It bears a holy seal.

Alastor nods stiffly and claps Angel dust on the shoulder in a rare show of physical camaraderie.

“Angel, be a dear and fetch the lady a drink. You have charms, I’m certain, but perhaps caution is better tact here. Rosie's bite is worse than her bark, and she can charm a cat into a rainstorm.” 

Rosie smiles, sharp teeth shining white even in the low light of the bar area, and bats her hand at Alastor. “You are the charmer. Now, I hear you are an actor! You must tell me all about your work.”

Angel looks positively sheepish.

“It’s not fer ladies, ma'am, if ya know what I mean.” He mumbles.

Rosie throws back her head in a laugh. “Oh, I do, but, sweetie, I dare to disagree. Your last feature was, pardon me, delightful. The emotions! The tension! The, shall we say, climax!"

Angel Dust perks up.

They usually did, when Rosie got her claws in them.

Ah, well, Alastor had warned him.

He travels by way of shadow to his room. It’s dark. Only the glow of the bayou, ever shining with the glow of stars and a projected moon, provides some light by which to find his way. 

The darkness never bothered him, anyway. 

Still, in the shadows, it is a strange sight that he find on the bed. A bulbous creature of white feathers on long legs. It moves, expanding and contracting in irregular patterns. Red flickers through the white. Alastor realizes he is looking at Lucifer’s wings and Charlie’s legs. Lucifer has cocooned them within his wings. 

“Lucifer?” Alastor whispers.

A small, burnt hand pokes out.

Alastor takes it within his own and sits sideways on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked beneath him.

“Whatever is the matter, mon ange?” 

A muffled whine filters through the white mass of feathers.

“Hmm, in English, please?” 

The top wing lifts up and over. Charlie and Lucifer - faces red and shining with a sheen of sweat and tears - blink up at him. Between them, Lenore snoozes, deep in dreamland. Her nose twitches in sleep; Alastor reaches over to tuck a damp curl behind her ear.

Lucifer pulls back his hand from Alastor’s grasp - the other attached to the arm encircling his eldest daughter- and digs out a crumpled paper from beneath the pile of Morningstars.

The date has been set.

60 days

They have 60 days until the Final Hearing. 

Alastor scans the letter. Arguments were to be submitted in writing in advance, with sworn affidavits supporting their position, with testimonials and evidence of their qualifications to be parents. Heaven would send delegates to tour the palace and assess whether Hell in general is conducive to a child’s - an angel’s - development. Then the hearing would be held in Hell, in the palace, hosted by the King of Hell. They could give an opening argument. A total of three witnesses for either said would be permitted to testify and be cross-examined by the opposing party. A closing argument would then be permitted. Following that, the decision would be made and it would be over.

Clever, Lucifer had called him. Ha! They had not even slowed Heaven down. Neutral magistrate. What a laugh! Heaven had simply ignored them.

“The High Seraphim.” Alastor snarls. His eyes flash into dials briefly.

“She is the Head of the High Court, magistrate of the Angels, bound to protect and serve the best interests of the angels. Lenore is an angel. Sera has jurisdiction.”

“They promised-”

“Michael promised.” Lucifer says tiredly, closing his eyes. “Michael is only an Archangel. He does not have the power to overrule the Head Seraphim. It would be like Charlie promising you my hat. She doesn't have that right.”

“It’s a ridiculous hat anyway.” Alastor says, on automatic.

Lucifer’s lips twitch but he does not smile. 

“They’ll take her.” He whispers. 

“They won’t. We won’t let them.” Alastor swears viciously. 

“Angels belong in Heaven.” Lucifer says, eyes remaining closed. 

“We will show them the best thing for Lenore is to be here, with us! With her family! See, the paper says that Sera will take an oath to See with an open heart. She knows Hell can redeem sinners! She knows we aren’t all bad!” Charlie insists. She looks between her father and Alastor, desperate for them to believe her, her own hope hinging on them.

“Of course we will, my dear!” Alastor agrees, hearing the falsehood ring hollow in his cheery tone. 

Lucifer tugs him into the cocoon of wings.

It’s quiet there. Only the sound of the baby’s sporadic sleepy vocalizations, or the hiccup of a sob from Lucifer, breaks the peace. Alastor rubs his fingers up and down Lenore’s arms. His fingers occasionally tangle with Lucifer’s, or Charlie’s, as the three of them try to soak in as much time with the baby as they can, hidden in this private world of feathers and comfort. They each memorize the way her fingers curl automatically around their own. Or how she sucks on nothing but air in her sleep. And the sound of her breathing, sometimes fast and other times fearfully quiet, as she is far away in her own world.

Lucifer burrows his face into Alastor's neck. Hot tears soak into his collar. Alastor's own drop into Lucifer's hair. He can hear Charlie sniffle nearby. 

Tears are a sign of weakness.

Alastor lets himself be weak, here, in their private world.

---

The Radio Tower is just as he left it. 

It awakens in his presence. A green glow overtakes the small studio in triumph. The hum of the transmitter welcomes him back as it comes to life. Shadow zooms around, touching each beloved feature of their old stomping ground. 

He sits down, staff at the ready. Outside, Pentagram City is sprawled out before him. He thrums his power through his microphone. Then he does it again. And again. He casts his power through every radio, antenna, transmitter, and receiver in the city. He battles with competing air waves. He garrottes television signals. 

Alastor had been an Overlord practically since he dropped into Hell. His life experience did give him an upper hand. Experience putting scum in the ground; experience rising above his own limits. It had always been a matter of controlling the madness that clawed at the edges of one’s sanity and putting it to good use. A smile, a gentle suggestion, a too-good-to-be-true offer. Sinners were weak, desperate creatures, and that put Dealmakers at an advantage in Hell.

Control.

Power had always been a question of control. Arrange the chaos into order. Subdue others to his will. String them up and watch them dance to his tune. Preparation was critical to business and murder. A good show lay in a neat script and playlist. An airtight contract depended on the fine print. A traceless kill was a matter of calculation and attention to detail.

Performance art was a much too underutilized form of attack in Hell.

“Salutations, good to be back on the air!” Alastor sings out into Pentagram City.

He sees a chorus of lights blink on along the window. 

The City is listening. 

Alastor spares a glance towards the ever present light of Heaven’s threat in the sky.

You listen too, you fuckers, he thinks.

“Yes, it is me. You have yet to go insane! The Radio Demon is back on the air, with a message. A message for you.” His fingers tap the desk. Once. Twice. Thrice. “Yes, you. All of you. By now all of Heaven and Hell know of my child. Well, I advise you to forget what you think you know. About me. About my child. Do not mistake my devotion for weakness. Every beat of my black heart sharpens the claws that can tear those mistakes apart. Beware the rumors, dear sinners, and think, would you like to perish with lies on your lips? There is no mercy for ignorance and even less for arrogance when it comes to your dealings with the Radio Demon."

Alastor draws his microphone closer. His antlers stretch beyond his shoulders. His jaw becomes heavy with dripping ichor.

“Know this: she is mine. I am the inheritor of Eve’s sin. I bore the next of Her line in Hell, a demon born of my sinful body, of my blood, mine. I am her mother. I will do my duty to protect her. So, sinners, winners, damned and holy, this will be my sole warning to you: come for mine, and there will be no corner of Heaven or Hell safe from my wrath. To get her, you’ll have to break me first. I will be damned anew before I bow to you."

Somewhere deep in the circuitry, a hiss of static pushed in, hungry, almost alive. 

Black ichor drips between the knobs of the control panel, feeding the beast within.

“To Heaven, who has offered me mercy,”  he spits the word into the microphone, “in exchange for the betrayal of my king, of Lucifer, let me give you a hail and hearty fuck you. I was there for the slaughter. Demons with halos, calling themselves Exorcists, pretending at divinity. Exterminating children, the infirmed, the weak. I heard your laughter in the streets, saw the glee on your masked faces, too shamed to show your identities. I tolerate much, but hypocrisy leaves a revolting taste on the tongue. I stand with Hell. I stand with Lucifer. Those who do not, who break their knees to bow to Heaven, stand against me.”

---

The week passes with alarming speed and near-normalcy.

Charlie is in six places at once, as usual, running the hotel, hosting therapy sessions, hounding the Front Desk, and bothering Alastor with her optimism. Her own shadow, Vaggie, follows close behind, tidying the chaos the princess leaves in her wake.

The sinners give Alastor a wide berth. Proof enough the radio broadcast had done its job. The message was out there. Now it was just a matter of seeing who was fool enough to ignore it. Alastor the Hotelier had been a quirky addition to Charlie’s happy hotel. But Alastor the Radio Demon was something else entirely. He would protect his child.

Protect.

Lenore gums her stuffed duck with carnivorous determination, the plush yielding like prey in a predator’s mouth. The dripping wet patch she’s created is far less charming. She makes small, satisfied hums as she chews.

Alastor smiles down at her, pride warming his chest. She is on his lap while he fills out the month’s order for tissues. Disgusting things, tissues, used to mop up the sobs and sniffles of sinners wallowing in their petty traumas and dramas. There has been an increase in tears, it seems, this week. Charlie claims the sinners were just as affected by Heaven's letter, that they worry for Lenore and Alastor, that they worry for the odd little home the hotel has become.

So, tissues.

A sound interrupts his work.

The distinct flap of wings.

His pen stills. His eyes snap up from the form. His foolish heart skips a beat.

Only an Avian Sinner.

Lucifer’s absence has been a break from Alastor’s recent normalcy. The King had been on top of Alastor - figuratively and literally - for weeks. Then came the letter, followed by a full day of royal sulking, and then Lucifer became an act in the circus he took inspiration from.

See the Amazing, Disappearing Fallen Angel!

Or, don’t. 

He hasn’t even come to bed, Alastor thinks. 

And curses himself for a fool. Alastor is no wife waiting for her husband to return. He is not his mother, standing at the window night after night, watching for a silhouette that never truly belonged to her. More ghost than man, more smoke than flesh, who came and went as he pleased.

“He will return, like the bad habit he is.” Alastor murmurs, checking another box on his form.

Dear Satan, maybe he has become his mother after all.

---

Lucifer does come to bed that night, as if Alastor had broadcast his anxieties on the air waves, calling his errant lover home.

He just slips in, without ceremony, and leans down to kiss Lenore, sleeping sprawled out on the bed like the tiny monarch she is. He exhales deeply as he slides beneath the covers, his head hitting the pillow heavy. Alastor can see the shadows under his eyes, had seen the curve of his back, slumped forward with exhaustion.

Alastor waits a beat, then too slips under the blankets on the other side of their child, careful not to wake her. She stirs at the movement, but settles just as quickly, nestled between them.

Lucifer shifts. “Sorry,” he murmurs through a yawn. “I meant to get home sooner. I wanted to have dinner with you. I wanted to rock Lenore to sleep. I wanted to talk to Charlie. She’s been texting me. I just have been so busy.”

“With what?”

Lucifer is quiet for a moment. “There’s so little time,” he murmurs, as if the words hurt to say aloud.

“You have forever, Lucifer,” Alastor reminds him, not unkindly.

Lucifer’s eyelids wrinkle as he shuts them tighter.

“That’s what I’m afraid of."

Chapter 24

Summary:

I admitted defeat today. These scenes were supposed to be waaaaay shorter. Like little mini scenes. But then I had a couple really creative nights and...we are currently sitting at 60 pages. So, I split it up for my sanity and yours.

*Sigh* Sometimes the outline looks simple on the surface. But ya'll know not to trust these author's notes anyway by now ;)

I'm just a writer doing her best to escape the world that is currently on fire. Everyone, make sure you take care of your mental health. You are loved.

The Hazbin Hotel transforms from redemption central to the headquarters for Operation Custody Battle. Unfortunate that there are too few knives and too many half drunk coffee cups, ink dry pens, and phallic doodles in the margins of too many notepads. The conference room on the first floor, previously intended for the daily staff meeting (that had become something of a weekly and then a bi-weekly meeting to now - thankfully - a nonexistent meeting), looks more like the Situation Room at the White House. Only more colorful and functional. Every square inch of wall space is covered in charts, lists, and - to Alastor’s chagrin - homemade motivational posters.

We Got This!

 

We ARE A Family!

 

Together We CAN Do It!

 

The Best Place for Our Baby is the Hazbin Hotel!

 

Fuck the power!

*With Evidence and Kindness!

**And Razors 😜  *** on Firepokers

 **** covered in Barbed Wire

*****And Battery Acid 

Alastor actually rather enjoys the collaboration on the last one.

Then there are the pictures. 

Four months of his child in living color. Her first day as a wrinkled, squalling thing he barely understood. Now a smiling - quite literal - angel with curling cherry-dipped blonde pigtails with sparkling mischief in her eyes. His Marie Lenore, his sunshine, his heart. In a handful of months, Alastor, the Radio Demon, Sovereign Overlord in Hell, is reduced to being a child’s Maman.

No, that is not quite right.

To be reduced implies he has suffered a loss. But Alastor knows he has gained a prize no other sinner in Hell could aspire to: in death, he has brought forth life. Somehow, he has found the light in the endless, vicious darkness. Now, he must protect his tiny flame that has lit up the shadows of his soul. He bears no delusions that she will be his salvation, nor does he seek that. Yet she has been a breath of life in his afterlife. 

Then there is Lucifer.

Lucifer, fool and king, has sparked a different fire in Alastor. A flame in his belly, spreading out through his blood, somehow quieting the constant buzzing noise of his radio waves. Fool that Alastor has become, his heart pitter-patters at the mere thought of Lucifer. Not exactly the beauty of him - physical composition has never been more than another measurement in Alastor’s too analytical mind. It’s the sound of that angelic voice is enough to bring crimson to Alastor’s sallow cheeks. It’s the touch of a burnt hand, rough and soft, an enigma of sensation on Alastor’s skin, causes him to shiver with more than static electricity. It’s the way Lucifer listens with all of his senses, the way he stumbles with grace, the playful silliness and the violent devotion, the humanity hidden beneath layers of celestial power, ancient wisdom, and damnation.

Fuck, Alastor has never been an angel but he has undoubtedly fallen.

It is clear Lucifer is up to something. He has been at the palace every day since they received Heaven’s notice. Alastor would ask, and Lucifer might even tell, but the little fool is barely around. 

Even Charlie, fountain of understanding and patience that she is, begins to show her irritation.

“One piece of paper! One signature! Damn it all - we should have done this months ago!” She moans, waving said piece of paper, a travel permit, above her head. It creases where her fingers grip too tightly. 

Vaggie makes a noise of sympathetic agreement from her station: organizing Hell’s districts and showing the reduction in violence* since the Hazbin Hotel opened its doors and then after Lucifer stepped back onto his throne (at least metaphorically).

*There really was no way to truly measure this given there technically is no codified set of criminal statutes or ordinances to track referrals, charges, or convictions of offenses. Or law enforcement to enforce any laws. The only court in Hell, other than the defunct Royal Court, is located in Wrath and never deals in sinner affairs. The Pride Rings deals more in street justice, or, put in a more sophisticated way, the Law of Darwinism. That being said, they have been taking advantage of anecdotal evidence collected by the dedicated Unionized Gang of Hazbin Hotel (UGHH). 

“We need to restart that Thursday remedial literacy group. These are just goddamn scribbles.” Vaggie crumples up the stained piece of paper and underhands it into the wastepaper basket. 

“I’ll get right on that after I find my dad so we can finally get Lenore’s goddamn birth certificate, finish this goddamn letter to my Aunt Bee, research another set of goddamn human laws on custody to reference in our goddamn brief, find a goddamn notary in Hell, and-”

Alastor, of a height to reach the now crumpled paper, removes it from Charlie’s grip and uses his other hand to guide her into one of the few non-paper covered chairs around the long conference table.

“-and take a goddamn break!” He finishes.

“There isn’t time.” Charlie protests. 

Her eyes flick to the glowing countdown clock on the wall.

53 DAYS TO GO

Alastor steps in front of her view.  He leans on his microphone, hands folded overtop, channeling the bite of angry static that came whenever the goddamn clock caught his attention.

“Charlie, my dear, you need sustenance. You need rest. Even your infamous grandfather rested on the seventh day, did he not?” Alastor pauses, for effect. “Though I suppose one could argue he simply quit that day, given how it all turned out after. Current management leaves something to be desired.”

Vaggie, fallen angel that she is, gasps in offended horror at the same time that Charlie, Princess of Hell, giggles. 

“I guess a teeny water break is okay.” Charlie hedges.

“And food.” Vaggie presses, grabbing her girlfriend by the arm and tugging, with Charlie showing only the barest hint of resistance.

“Perhaps some fresh air? Some demon’s finger is blooming in the side garden. I do believe they have already begun their army of insectoid zombies, though Niffty is the authority on that. She mentioned pursuing an alliance. I added it to the next staff meeting agenda for approval.” 

“We don’t have a staff meeting scheduled this month. Or next. Have you forgotten we are trying to save your kid?” Vaggie sounds genuinely frustrated, and has balled up her hands into fists, barely being held back by Charlie.

“I have not.” Alastor says quietly, static low, “It was a joke. An ill-timed one. Forgive me. Please, take your break, ladies.”

“Fuck, Alastor, I’m-” Vaggie cuts herself off at his raised hand.

“Please, no apologies necessary. Go.” 

Alastor returns his attention to his own assignment - recording Lenore’s milestones, health, and disposition from birth to present - so it is only the click of the door that gives him notice the two overworked women have left.

Nearly at the same instant, the swish of power riding the coattails of that click, Lucifer materializes behind Alastor, his soft chin propped on his sharp shoulder. The brim of his oversized hat knocks against the corner of Alastor’s mouth, and his eyeball is almost skewered by the stem of the apple encircled by Lucifer’s crown when the man tries to kiss his neck.

Alastor jerks his shoulder up sharply. It connects with Lucifer’s jaw, causing his jaw to click! audibly. Lucifer responds with a playful headbutt to Alastor’s forehead with the top of his hat, mistakenly interpreting Alastor’s abuse as flirtation. 

Alastor clarifies his intentions.

“What a coincidence! The absentee father arrives the moment his daughter departs,” Alastor remarks loudly, playing a sound clip of trumpeting fanfare. He twirls the pen between his claws, watching as Lucifer winces at the barbed insult.

“Please don’t. I just wanted a minute alone with you. Is that too much to ask?”

Alastor tilts his head, pinched, gritted smile unchanging. “Did you consider whether I wanted the same? No, you wouldn’t have. My daughter is napping, your daughter is finally distracted, and I must complete this record of my daughter’s health from birth to present.” He flicks the pen, holding it between two fingers like a cigarette. "Only I can complete this part, you understand.”

He lets that statement hang between them.

“Given I have now apparently resumed the role of single parent… time is fleeting, as they say,” 

Lucifer releases Alastor’s shoulder. He hops onto the conference table, causing papers and pens to scatter, his pert little behind landing squarely on Alastor’s incomplete report. 

“Please don’t be like this,” he pleads softly.

“Like what, darling? What precisely am I like?” Alastor asks, tone sharp as a serrated knife.

Lucifer pinches the bridge of his nose, digging into the edges of his sockets with the tips of his claws, jaw tight. He shifts his weight where he sits, kicking his short legs a few times, before answering.

“Cruel. This ‘my daughter, your daughter’ bullshit. I’m not avoiding my responsibilities. Not anymore anyway. I’m not avoiding you. Or the kids. I’m working for them, actually. I am just so -”

“-busy,” Alastor cuts in, tutting with exaggerated sympathy. He leans back in his chair, drumming his claws on the armrest. “Poor little king, so busy, as I lounge in our cold bed eating bon-bons and reading dime store smut, letting you shoulder the burden of raising your children.”

He snaps his fingers and a pin proclaiming FATHER OF THE YEAR appears on Lucifer’s lapel. 

The King snaps his own fingers and flames consume the offending accessory. 

“Funny.” He risks his fingers and caresses Alastor’s sharp chin, his thumb increasing the danger by outlining Alastor’s lower lip, so close to the razor teeth within. “Let me take the next shift, yeah? You can head upstairs and read your dime store smut. Then maybe Charlie takes the shift after that and we can smut it up together.”

Alastor leans into the space between Lucifer’s spread thighs. The Devil’s spiced cologne, mixed with his natural odors of brimstone and apples, reaches Alastor’s sensitive nose. His damned heart jumps in recognition. Heat pools in his twisting stomach. The room feels smaller, the air tense, as he dangles on the precipice of confrontation and craving.

“Intriguing idea.” He purrs.

Lucifer leans in too, angling his face toward Alastor’s, purple lids lowering seductively. There he is: the temptor, the serpent in the garden, the fall of mankind.

 “Only…” Alastor breathes.

Nearly together, the glow of golden eyes deepens the shadows under Alastor’s cheeks and lids. Lucifer’s snake tongue flicks out, catching the curve of Alastor’s smile. Unrepentant. Tempting.

“Yeah?” 

“Only…I’m. Just. So. Busy.” Alastor pushes every bit of frustration he has felt over this last week into every word. Then he pushes his chair away from the table. Lucifer faceplants onto the floor with a surprised yelp. 

“Um, owww. ”

The day certainly can get worse as Alastor’s tiny respite from Charlie’s aggressive optimism is interrupted by her equally aggressive sense of control over every person’s wellbeing. Or, at least, her own sense of their wellbeing. 

“Oh my god, Al, are you-” Charlie flings the door open. It slams (aggressively) into a stack of boxes already teetering to the left under the weight of themselves and they give up the fight to carpet the floor with clean sheets of colored office paper.

“Dad?” She blinks back her surprise into a happy grin of delight. “I’m so happy to see you! I have just a couple things for you to sign…”

There is a punishment for all those condemned to eternal damnation. Niffty is compelled to clean obsessively, hunting down the insects that led to her execution in life—it was how they found the senator’s body stashed in the office closet. Husker requires alcohol for sustenance, since he cannot absorb energy from common fare, yet his chronic alcoholism prevents him from stopping once he starts. Alastor’s smile is never permitted to fade; his powers are too closely tied to his sanity - and, now, again, to his inability to be human, to be good - threatening to break him.

There is a punishment for all those condemned to eternal damnation. Niffty is compelled to clean obsessively, hunting down the insects that led to her execution in life. It was how they found the senator’s body stashed in the office closet. Husker requires alcohol for sustenance, since he cannot absorb energy from common fare, yet his chronic alcoholism prevents him from stopping once he starts. Alastor’s powers, great as they are, are too closely tied to his precarious sanity, to his inability to be human, his inability to be good. The more he attempts to control them the more inhuman he becomes, until his mind is fractured in the shell of a distorted version of himself.

And always, through it all, Alastor’s smile is never permitted to fade away.

Ahhh, a touch too maudlin, old boy!

The point is, Lucifer’s punishment is paperwork. Clearly. The Devil groans and grumbles and complains the entire time. In Alastor’s opinion, he could sign without reading, rubber-stamp his daughter’s requests and move onto his oh-so-important-can’t-spend-time-with-Alastor-or-be-a-present-father-to-the-child-they-might-lose-or-the-other-one-he-has-already-abandoned-once-busy-bee-tasks. 

Okay, that is a bit too woe is me for Alastor to stomach.

Lucifer does read every page. His forked tongue slips in and out of his lips as he thinks, sometimes lip reading silently, other times licking and biting his bottom lip. He bobs his head a few times, shakes it once and crosses out a paragraph, writing over the ink with a summoned quill (a quill! With a feather!) and transforming it without the pesky use of erasers or white-out. 

“Done! Tell Bel she can stop by the palace after Lenore’s check-up tomorrow. I have some paperwork to give her for Sloth.”

“Dusting off your throne, Majesty?” Alastor asks, trying for nonchalance and landing somewhere closer to sneering.

Lucifer rolls his eyes. “It’s less of a pain in my ass than you’ve been today.” He counters. 

“Hmm, what a fascinating construction for the highest seat in Hell! Is that what they call a power bottom? ” Alastor returns.

“Oh, I’ll show you-”

“Actually!” Charlie interrupts loudly, hands held out between the two, frantic to stop whatever inappropriate comment Lucifer had loaded and read to fire. Alastor is quite disappointed she does. “I did want to ask if I could stop home to check out the library.”

“The library?” Lucifer scratches his head. 

“Yeah, um, to look up…stuff.”

“Stuff.” Lucifer repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“About…me. How I was created. Maybe if I find that, we can figure out how Lenore was created. Other than the obvious.” She explains, quiet, moving her finger in a figure 8 pattern on the table’s surface. “Maybe see why I turned out…like I did. A demon.”

Lucifer’s expression hardens. “Charlie. You turned out amazing. Who you are has nothing to do with whatever fucked up spell your mom found. You are my daughter and I am proud of you. We all are, right, Al?”

Alastor cannot fathom how he plays in this identity crisis, but he supposes this is the classic ‘support’ one is expected to give one’s partner, even if that partner is a neglectful, absent-minded disaster of a being.

“Of course we are!” He agrees with a wave of a lackadaisical hand. 

“I want to know, Dad.” Charlie says quietly.

“I’ve already looked. I read every book on fertility spells there is in that whole damn place when I found out about Lenore. And there are many. A lot. In languages that are long dead. Honestly, sweetie, with everything going on right now, I think we can table this mystery.”

“Maybe I’ll take one quick look. To make sure.”

“Kiddo, I looked.” He turns to Alastor for support. “Why doesn’t she think I looked?”

Alastor chuckles and pats Lucifer’s head with a bit too much enthusiasm (ie: hard).

“She does, Sire. It’s more of a, shall we say, a quality check, ” he says.

Charlie nods with her own brand of enthusiasm (ie: non-violent, see also: boring). “Yeah! Just another set of eyes!”

“My eyes work just fine!” Lucifer insists, crossing his arms and knocking over a box of questionnaires in the process. 

Alastor floats a playful laugh track through the air as Lucifer scrambles to the floor to collect the papers.

(1. When did you arrive in Hell? 2. What is your favorite thing about Hell? 3. What is your second favorite thing about Hell? 4. What is your favorite lunch spot in Hell?)

“Hm, it’s your flighty birdbrain that’s the concern, my dear,” Alastor teases.

Lucifer splutters, “I'm not a bird, you...deer boy!” A crumpled paper flies out from under the table towards Alastor. It might have been cute, flirtatious even, a demonstration of the awkward affection that this very early stage in their romantic relationship tends to fall on. 

But it travels at approximately 90 mph and is on fire.

Which, actually, Alastor admires.

He whacks it back towards his beau with a swift hit on the base of his microphone. It plays the appropriate sound clip of a THWACK! and grandstand cheers, followed by Alastor’s own voice echoing: “going, going, gone!” as Shadow leaps in front of the King to absorb the inferno.

Charlie rolls her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips, and turns to her father again. “Dad, I spent decades in that library. I practically lived there in grad school! I specialized in soul magic, and there are a few theories I want to check. You tend to tackle problems head on - “

“Or avoid them entirely!” Alastor interjects with a savage grin.

Charlie, to her credit, ignores the interruption. “I’ve learned that some things aren’t straightforward. Like the exterminations. Killing was the easy, direct answer for Heaven. But it doesn’t mean it was the best one, or even the right one. I’ve developed the habit of looking around the problem - exploring different angles. Sometimes, that’s what it takes to find what we need to find.” She explains, spreading out her hands as if to ask if her father understands.

Lucifer beams and whatever resolve he had melts away. “That’s my girl. Don’t mind the mess. I am having some renovations done.” 

“Renovations?” Alastor inquires.

“For the hearing. Fixing up the place. Modernizing some of the outdated tech. Gotta impress the fam, you know. Judgmental assholes, the load of them. Kinda like a housewarming party ten thousand years late.”

Alastor narrows his eyes. “If that wired up cretin is supplying-”

“Calm your antlers, Bambi. My brother Ozzie is taking care of it. And working on the interior decorating.”

“My own specialty! I daresay I should be allowed to have input in any new decor as your beau.” Alastor chirps. He gestures to a pair of antlers half hidden beneath a poster board, tines of the antlers punctured through the board’s top to hold it in place.

He waits for an invitation. 

It doesn’t come.

Lucifer avoids the eye contact Alastor is blatantly fishing for, the wiggly bastard refusing to be caught.

Charlie clears her throat.

“So, ah, now might be a good time to go? We were just talking about taking a break…”

“To rest!” Vaggie protests.

Lucifer nods. “Yeah, I can take you there now. But, with the renovations, we’ll need to skip the tour this time around.” 

Alastor considers forcing the issue. It is so glaringly obvious Lucifer wishes to exclude Alastor from whatever is going on at the palace. It would be child’s play to drag that stinking carcass into the light. The King may acknowledge their relationship publicly, but it’s increasingly clear that Alastor has taken on a role more akin to the maîtresse-en-titre than consort. Despite the papers speculating that Alastor is warming the king’s bed for influence, he is no closer to the throne than he was four months ago.

The baby monitor - a radio connected to another in his room by his radio waves, replacing the infernal screen contraption brought in by Charlie the day prior - wails to life with Lenore’s demands on his attention. The Morningstar duo jumps in synchronized surprise. 

Alastor decides Lucifer, considering the sneaking snake that he has been of late, doesn’t deserve the privilege of cuddling his child’s sleep-warm body against his scales.

“Ahh, duty calls - and the dutiful will answer!” Alastor proclaims with false cheer and sinks into the shadows.

Later that night, as Alastor paces the conference room, a lolling Lenore against his chest, stopping to scribble down a thought or two as they come to him, the the clock’s bell chimes and the numbers change.

52 DAYS TO GO

Their war room expands to the parlor to film the video package. A single armchair, a crocheted blanket draped across the back, is center stage. The room is well-lit by a half dozen stage lights, but they still have a homey lamp on a side table. On the floor next to the chair are Lenore’s stuffed deer and a stack of diapers, strategically placed by Angel Dust to ‘set the scene’.

A cross-stitched sign on the wall proclaims THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HELL!

Can’t argue with that!

At Charlie’s insistence, Alastor plays soothing, horrid slow elevator jazz for ‘the vibes’. As recommended by that wretched, uncultured, cheap trollop Angel Dust.

Shadow, arms crossed, frown exaggerated, mimicking the universal body language for upchucking, shows the disgust Alastor’s eternal grin can never get quite right.

“Just one shot!” Charlie pleads as they finish setting up, hands clasped to literally beg him to set aside all his standards and lower himself to mediocrity. 

“Ha! No no no. I am here in a supervisory capacity only.” He wags his finger. 

He remains at his post in a corner of the room, microphone tucked under his arm, His head swings more than a juke joint as he looks up to address the adults in the room and back down to monitor his child. Lenore flip flops on a blanket at his feet. She is particularly proud of her ability to roll from front to back, though Alastor suspects it is more to do with her hate of the dread ‘tummy-time’ than the act itself. He acknowledges each feat with a particularly exaggerated “oh!” or “my my!” or “wow!” 

The bar is terribly low for entertainment today. He expects Lenore will win the award for best performance.

“If Heaven could only see how good you are with her….Vaggie, help me out here?” 

Vaggie looks momentarily stricken and only Alastor can see the green glow that wraps around her throat. He raises his brow, all mock expectation and patience. Tragically - for the day’s scheduled programming and Alastor’s entertainment - the clever girl does not try to fight the compulsion and just shakes her head.

“Losing battle, babe.” She coughs and clears her throat with a loud hack. “Okay, Niffty, front and center!”

The little maid scampers past and leaps up on the chair, bouncing high in the air before landing hard against the arm. She giggles, showing her adorable little mania to the audience, and brushes a wrinkle out of her skirt.

Alastor mimes that she should smile, pointing at the corners of his mouth.

Her lips pull up and over. Sharp and dangerous. Just the way a demon should smile!

Vaggie, for reasons Alastor cannot fathom, drops her head into a hand. The boom mic she had been holding, heavy and unwieldy when manned with two hands, plunks down on the maid’s head. 

“Shit! Sorry!”

“Hehehehehehehehe! Again! Again!”

“Uh.” Vaggie stares skyward, looking for guidance in all the wrong places. After all, Alastor is right here! An expert in stage direction and performance! “Maybe after the interview.”

Angel Dust steps behind the camera, sitting in a director’s chair. “Whatever gets a gal off and the job done. Hear that, Niffs? Do good and Vagina here’ll knock ya silly.”

“No-”

“The bad girl.” Niffty says in hushed tones.

Angel smirks and, before Vaggie can protest further, shouts through his megaphone: “ACTION!”

“Ehem!” Charlie flips to the first page of her notebook. “Okay, Niffty, how do you know Alastor?”

The Cyclop’s pupil enlarges so the sclera is a sliver at the edge of her eyeball.

Jazz answers the question she does not.

“Niffty?”

A high pitched whine emits from her chest.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

“Cut!” Vaggie shouts.

Angel Dust leans sideways to glare at her. “Hey! I’m the director here, toots!”

“Wow! That was fun!” Niffty wiggles in her seat, thawed from her frozen terror.

“Ya didn’t say nuffin’, Niffs.” Angel tells her.

“Oh.”

Charlie sucks in a deep breath. One, two, three. And lets it out. One two, three, four, five, six.

“Let’s try again.” She says calmly, hands pressed together as if preparing to meditate.

Or in prayer.

“Action!” 

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

“Cut!” Vaggie shouts again.

Angel starts to protest. He snaps his mouth shut at Charlie’s fiery glare. Her patience, evidently, is not the deep well it once was. It runneth dry in the face of petty squabbles. 

“So she’s a lil’ camera shy.” He cranes his neck around the camera. “I get that. Jus’ picture yer gettin’ rammed by a guy wit’ a - “

“Angel!” 

“It helps!” 

“This is not that kind of film!”

Alastor glances at his pocket watch, noting the limited time remaining that Lenore will be content on the floor. Entertainment is as necessary as milk for the sweet girl. Hardly her fault. This is clearly an inherited trait. 

He summons a shadow minion and instructs it to play the age old game of peek-a-boo.

To the film crew he advises, “Niffty is a cultured soul. Her better senses prevent her from engaging in this ridiculous format. Niffty, darling, we’ll finish your interview in my tower tomorrow. Run along now.” He sends a shadow roach skittering across the floor.

The little maid chases it with a wild battle cry. 

The shadow minion, on the ‘boo’ portion of his designated program, opens its hands to see the crazed demon running in his direction with a knife. (Wherever does the clever darling pull those out of!). It lets out a silent scream and throws itself across the room, colliding with the Spider Demon’s head.

Which collides with the camera.

Which knocks into one of the sweltering stage lights. 

Which catches the carpet on fire.

“OH FUCK!” “SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT!” “ROAST THE ROACHES! FEED THE FIRE WITH THEIR CORPSES!” “We need-” “Here!” “What the- FUCK! Angel, was that liquor!” “Canna fella have a drink once inna while?” “It’s 9:00am!” “ROASTY TOASTY ROACHES!”

Truly, radio is the superior media format!

It takes a day of disastrous interviews - including Charlie’s own where Lenore screamed in delight when her sister tickled her round belly, and shattered the camera lenses (Alastor was so proud!) - for them to admit a video clip was the wrong move in a case concerning the Radio Demon’s daughter.

At midnight, the clock changes: 

42 DAYS TO GO

Three precious work days are spent combing through and justifying Alastor’s soul contracts in the event Heaven catches wise the paper trail deals leave. Charlie had every deal Alastor ever entered into catalogued and copied for their perusal. To save the girl’s delicate sensibilities, Alastor allows the OG group of compadres to only review the contracts concerning the safe transfer of souls.

He is certain she would not approve of the hit lists, minor coupes, indentured labor, and stipulated injunctions preceded by long bouts of torture and maiming.

The days are wasted away in dialogue very similar to the example provided below:

“This is a load of bullshit.” Vaggie comments. She tosses a contract onto the increasingly tall 'Heaven will use for ammo' pile in front of Charlie.

Alastor glares at her, “This is my afterlife’s work! You lucky ducks are viewing the portfolio of a master!”

“No one needs this many souls. Fuck, Alastor, this guy sold his soul for a drink. A drink.” vaggie grabs back the contract and waves it about. It smacks Charlie in the face. A favor, perhaps, since the poor girl's eye had been going cross on a particularly complicated contract Alastor had made with a lawyer back in the early '50s.

There are really too many lawyers in Hell. Alastor decided early on in his career as overlord they had better use for mincemeat than minions. All that 'technically' and 'it depends' and 'it can be interpreted'...funny how simple contract law becomes when reviewed in the radio tower!

“A fair trade really. Utterly useless chap. But, as they say, you get what you bargain for!”

“Look, this one sold hers to Alastor, Radio Demon, for the removal and devouring of ex-husband’s liver daily for eternity." Husker chuckle and lifts his glass to his master in an acknowledge of a deal that suits both parties well.

“Ah, Prometheus! He was the ideal dinner guest - always brought a dish! I do admit I subcontracted that one to Rosie after a time. One can grow tired of even delicacies.”

Angel Dust catches the easy atmosphere and waves around his own to attract the group's attention. “Ha, listen ta this! Alastor, Radio Demon, will co-sign a loan at Hellabank fer the purchase of a super sick set-a wheels. ” 

“He defaulted, of course. My credit would have taken a dreadful hit had the bank not crashed. Oh, pardon me, had the motorbike not crashed into the bank.”

“Okay…that’s a little funny." Vaggie concedes, her lips curling. "Put it in the no harm done pile. There is no such thing as a good bank.” 

“Au contrary - eva heard of a spank bank?” Angel waggles his eyebrows.

“I cannot say I have, my fine fellow! It sounds delightfully violent. Care to explain to the room in detail while the remainder peruse the contracts without commentary?” Alastor's lips curl up, up, up, as his brows go down, down, down to form an expression of pure mischief.

“Oh, I’d love-” 

“NO!" "Shut up!" "No, thank you." "I need a drink." 

38 DAYS TO GO

They should have invested in the paper mill in the industrial district at the start of all this. Affidavits, letters of support, data and anecdotes, legal precedents, argument, photographs, medical records…they really should have bought some stock. Their submission is printed in triplicate for Heaven, with another triplicate made for Charlie, Alastor, and Lucifer to review and refer to for the hearing, if necessary. 

Six bible thick binders sit in a line on the conference table, being checked and rechecked in an assembly line of tired but determined demons.

Ironically, the total page count of one binder, if one bothered to check, is 666 pages.

Well, 665 with a single blank page that has been acting as placeholder for a statement that does not appear to be making it in before midnight.

Alastor refuses to bring up this fact - has sworn both Angel and Husker to silence by threat of Husker’s shredded soul - to Charlie for fear she will make an addition to throw off the number. 

“Fuck! Paper cut.” Vaggie groans. Golden blood wells at the tip of her index finger. 

"Language." The group murmers collectively in a perfect example of a Pavlovian reflex.

Alastor, caught on a rare photograph of himself with all three Morningstars, flicks a bandage into existence and slides it down the table. In the photograph, Charlie sits next to him on the couch and Lenore is propped up on his lap. She has caught Charlie’s finger in her right fist, Alastor’s in her left, and pressed her fists together so it looks like she is trying to get the two to hold hands.

Alastor and Charlie are both smiling at Lenore but Lucifer, standing behind the couch, is smiling at Alastor.

A candid photo. They are all candid, with the exception of two posed photographs. The first is of Alastor and Lenore, standing in the bayou, both smiling for the camera. The second is of Alastor and the Morningstars: Lucifer and Alastor stand behind an exquisite, gilded chair, in which Charlie sits, holding Lenore. Smiling. All smiles and happiness.

That had been the last meaningful time Lucifer had spent at the hotel before performing his disappearing act. Oh, he sent messages, plans to arrive by dinnertime, dropping by the conference room to spend a few moments with his daughters and get up to speed on the collective efforts of staff and residents. Then, poof!, gone again.

Lenore reaches out for the photo and Alastor places it back in the binder to protect it from her grabby hands.

“What the…hey, Charles, babe, why is your dad posting on Voxstagram?” Angel asks. He had been not-so-subtly doom-scrolling for the last hour; at least, that was the last time Alastor saw him turn a page. Angel holds out his phone and, yes, King Lucifer Morningstar has a recent post.

Great team!! Can’t wait to work together @overlord.hq

Below is a picture of the King, Zestial, Carmine, and, of all twists, Velvette. A selfie, if Alastor has grasped the lingo correctly. All are tucked in tight. They are in an unfamiliar room, warmly lit, with golden floors and dark midnight blue walls.

“Oh, the ballroom.” Charlie comments brightly then her brow furrows. “Dad took the overlords to the palace…”

“Some of ‘em, anyways.” Angel Dust flicks his mismatched set of peepers over Alastor’s way. 

Charlie rises, groaning and stretching, and tucks her binder beneath her arm.

“I think I’ll just go check that he is okay. Uh, take five, everyone. Ughhhh.” She says. 

Her trusty court of misfits rise with her in a show of respect for their royal leader.

Ha ha! What a thought! No, their company takes the opportunity to run - not walk - from the room muttering about breaks.

“I’ll come with you.” Vaggie says.

Alastor stretches, his back snap-crackle-popping with the movement, “I will as well. I can think of no one less qualified to handle the political machinations of the Overlord Council than your father.” He discreetly feels the status of Lenore’s diaper and judges the level of expansion is nearing flood levels.

“Uh. I’m good.” Charlie says quickly.

“Nonsense. Increasing the ratio of Morningstar is not the solution you think it is, my dear. Give me a tick to change your sister and I’ll be right behind you.”

“You can’t” Charlie looks in physical pain from the words. “The palace is warded. Unless my dad has given you an invitation to go…you can’t. I do, uh, since it’s home, and Vaggie been coming with me to the library. But, um, well, I don’t think-"

“Your father has not invited me.” Alastor sums up with a hum. He is grateful his grin hides most negative expressions, like hurt or embarrassment. The tinge of red on his cheeks can’t be helped. “Well then. Lenore and I will be in the garden. Tell your father I expect to see him tonight. At a reasonable time.”

He won’t get a cellular phone - honestly, with an overlord whose power is derived from and focused on screens, it is the height of stupidity to own one - it would stymy this horrid game of telephone he has been playing through Charlie, not knowing if his unanswered messages are being delivered and yet certain that they are. 

“Ta!” He calls over his shoulder, echoed by an “ah!” in his arms.

It might waste precious time in the day but laying on the ground for the next hour saves a substantial amount of property damage. Lenore wiggles in the grass, grabbing at fistfuls of red and purple. She babbles at the sky. He presses his face into her side, the fabric of her dress covering his expression, and lets his grin fall as much as it is able.

The gate to Heaven glows ominously bright above.

---

Alastor bathes Lenore later that night.

He adds a generous helping of bubbly soap, swishing it around to create a frothy white mountain of seed pearl bubbles. Lenore giggles in delight from her bath seat. Chubby legs kick with abandon. Water splashes up Alastor’s sleeves - rolled up in a failed preventative measure - and soaks the front of his shirt where he leans over the tub. 

A small bubble, only the size of a gumball, disconnects from the quickly vanishing bubble islands and floats by Lenore’s face.

She coos, eyes wide. Her lips bow into a smile, the apples of her cheeks rounding.

A much larger blue bubble emerges from the water. Then a golden one. Then a lavender one. Each color of the rainbow soon surrounds them. Corresponding bursts of light follow their demise. Alastor twirls a finger in the water. A mini rainbow whirlpool tickles the baby’s feet and she dips them in further with a loud squeal. 

Alastor chuckles and darkens the room with an applique of shadow to the vanity lights.

The lightshow is impressive. Especially considering it is being directed by an infant. Lenore seems equally in awe of the performance, supporting Alastor’s conclusion that the girl doesn’t really mean to be doing anything. She lacks control of her powers for the same reason she wears diapers: she has yet to learn how to manage otherwise. 

A particularly bright bubble bursts on one of his antlers and triggers a bright C major chord.

As he lathers her wriggling body with soap, he begins to sing:

 

𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮I'm dreaming dreams, I'm scheming schemes,

I'm building castles high.

They're born anew, their days are few,

Just like a sweet butterfly.

And as the daylight is dawning,

They come again in the morning. 𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮

 

He pours a cupful of clean water over her. She starts to protest with an angry whine, but he quickly continues the song, this time accompanied by instrumentals.

 

𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮I'm forever blowing bubbles,

Pretty bubbles in the air,

They fly so high, nearly reach the sky,

Then like my dreams, they fade and die.

Fortune's always hiding, I've looked everywhere,

I'm forever blowing bubbles,

Pretty bubbles in the air. 𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮

 

She tolerates him draining the bath water away and wrapping her up in a dry, fluffy towel. He gently rubs the water from her skin and hair, twisting the latter into a loose bun at the top of her head. With a snap of his fingers, a fresh diaper and warm nightclothes cover her. 

She yawns. 

He smiles down at her, warmly indulgent, and gives her nose a butterfly kiss. He opens his shirt to put himself on offer to her. Even if she inherited none of his demonic nature, he may have passed down a touch of his endless hunger from how enthusiastic the child is at feeding. The pull of milk from his sensitive chest will never not be strange and wonderful. The inevitable soreness is a small price to pay for the humanity such a small act has restored to him. 

The radio filter is a mere scratch as he resumes his song.

 

𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮When shadows creep, when I'm asleep,

To lands of hope I stray!

Then at daybreak, when I awake,

My blue bird flutters away.

Happiness, you seem so near me,

Happiness, come forth and cheer me…𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮

 

Rocked to the beat, shadows indeed creeping around them in cool comfort, the thump of her mother’s heart beneath her ear, the baby's lids droop. Alastor turns the volume of his voice down as she drifts into dreamland. He lays her in her bassinet and watches as her eyes flicker a sliver before settling. 

For a time, unknown in length, he simply stands above her. He wonders at her dreams. Does she dream of demons and feel at peace? Do angels feature in her nightmares, as they do so frequently in his own? 

She wakes nightly with screams in her throat. She is an infant, of course she does. That is what he tells the anxious thoughts that press against paradise, at least. It is one of the few bits of knowledge he had of infants when he began his journey into parenthood: babies cry, sleep, and mess their nappies. Milk and cuddles quiet her in the night now. One day, he knows, her tears might not be kissed away with such ease. 

She may be frightened of monsters in the dark as so many children are.

Or, for the curious mind to dwell on, the child of monsters might find her nightmares cast a more divine shadow.

“Alastor?” A whisper behind him, closer to an exhale than a voice.

“Lucifer. You grace us with your presence.” Alastor hisses. He summons his microphone and leans against it for support. 

And in warning. 

The King flinches. “I missed her bedtime again.”

“Indeed you did.”

Footsteps on the carpet tread light, hesitant, and then Alastor can feel Lucifer’s presence at his back. So close that, if Alastor inhales deeply, he knows his back will press along Lucifer’s front.

“I’m a dick.” Lucifer mumbles.

“Indeed you are.” Alastor agrees.

A hand gently loops around his waist, softly skimming the damp fabric of his shirt without making contact. It comes to rest on the side of the bassinet, causing it to sway. But Lenore is already asleep, unaffected by the rhythmic rocking and unaware of her errant father’s rare presence.

“Does performing this pantomime soothe your guilty conscience? It must weigh terribly from time to time.” He shrugs, as if he does not care. As if he could not care. “Or maybe not. The lives of gods and kings.”

“You’re mad at me. Again. I keep fucking this up.” Lucifer observes sadly and, thankfully, stops that ridiculous rocking before it disturbs the child. “I promise-”

Alastor rounds on him, grabbing at a loose blast of an angry trumpet before it reaches a thread of radio wave and stuffing it into a cloud of static to avoid waking the baby, “You will find I have no need of broken promises.” He hisses.

He jabs Lucifer in the stomach with his staff.

Hard.

Lucifer stares up at him, tears shining in his big golden eyes, and whispers, “I’m trying to protect her.”

“I can protect her.” Alastor snaps. 

His antlers snap with him, adding several inches to their length. A green glow casts across Lenore in her bassinet. 

“I know.” Lucifer agrees quickly. “I know you can. But Heaven plays dirty and I… just trust me on this? Please?”

Alastor snorts. The scent of charred ichor, tasting of iron and licorice, fills his senses. His joints pop out of their sockets. His back hunches as his form shifts. Lucifer - pretty little angel he is - is a stark comparison for the Radio Demon.

“Get out.” His voice snarls from the radio on the dresser. 

Then he screams it.

“GET OUT!”

The hard consonants tear through the airwaves, splitting his voice into a series of echoes, distorted and ripped apart into primal roars and vibrations that shake the room. The radio tips off the dresser with a crash. Amphibians and avians screech in dissonant frequencies from the bayou.

The commotion startles Lenore awake and her cry adds to the chaos.

“Al, please.” 

His shadow, cast in the dim green glow of his power and the moonlight from bayou, dwarfs the King. He sees the distortion, limbs elongated, head teetering on a sliver of neck, and the dark ugliness of his demonic form across such loveliness reminds him of his own monstrosity.  

(The monster in the night.)

Alastor has had little occasion to feel ashamed of his appearance since dropping into Hell. He isn’t. He came out much more fortunate than most demons in the looks department. His eldritch form has been a particular point of pride for him. It is powerful, his power manifested and on display, allowing him to peacock his abilities about and frighten the bejeezus out of other sinners.

But he sees Lucifer look away from him and heat rises to his chilled cheeks. 

The blood drains the ichor from his radio dials to the points of his hooves.

Then he is only Alastor, sinner and fool, and he can’t bear to see Lucifer’s face. It has been weeks since the fallen angel visited Alastor’s rooms for more than a brief check-in on Lenore’s bedtime status. It has been weeks since they had spoken of anything but Lenore, limited as those conversations are. He does not want Lucifer to look away, fool that he is, but he can't figure out how to keep Lucifer's attention. 

Alastor sees that he not only has stepped into his mother’s shoes, but finds they don’t fit quite right. 

There had never been a doubt in his mind that his father, unworthy of his mother’s heart, had cared for her in his own fly by night way.

Now, two centuries later, with more experience and pride than his mother ever had, Alastor cannot say the same for his own affair. A one night stand. A year of terse conversations in a professional setting. A child. An attack. Lucifer’s realization that Lenore deserves to be more than a byblow, is a child deserving of love and protection. 

Then…the switch flipped.

Kindness. A handful of kisses. An act of service below the belt. Scattered flirtations. Proximity, at first, and then distance. Crocodile tears. Promises, promises, promise. It had all gotten Lucifer access to the child Alastor would have kept from him. He had strummed Alastor’s strings like his golden fiddle, plucking and rending him speechless. He had toyed with Alastor’s naivety and instincts to rig the game. He had…

He had played Alastor for a fool.

Prostitution, he supposes, is a small sin for the King of them all to commit. Perhaps Alastor should feel some pride that he put the King of the Sin on his knees, that he had fucked that lying mouth, that he still holds the trump card in this fucked up game. 

The game.

The game.

…you might still win yet. 

Not a forfeit after all. 

Lucifer is still playing the game. Whatever fucked up game is between them, Hell’s perverse version of chess or, worse, a game of chicken. Alastor has been stagnant. Pieces taken or scattered. He had flinched. He had…he had…

“Get out.” Alastor repeats by way of his more traditional voice box.

Lucifer swallows hard, squares his shoulders. Clever devil. He appears more man than King of Hell. It is all an act. The Temptor. The Snake. The fucking Devil himself and Alastor was fool enough to fall. To feel.

“We need to talk about this.” He moves to pass around Alastor, to get to the bassinet, “Come here, sweetie.”

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzap!

A flash of light. Lucifer cries out, more in surprise than pain, as a high voltage of static shock bites his hand. The voodoo sigils etched along the bassinet’s edge glow green.

Lenore sobs and gasps in her bassinet.

Alastor slams his microphone into the floor. Voodoo symbols cascade across the room and burn into the carpet. Lucifer hisses and leaps into the air, wings extended in an instant. 

“I fought the First Man without a chance in this godforsaken hell for a girl that was not my own. Imagine what I would do for her.” He says, voice rich in radio overlay, dark with shadows and, disgustingly, thick with shame and hurt. He scoops up Lenore, stiff and golden-cheeked with the magnitude of the tantrum they triggered.

They had been having such a pleasant evening.

“Try me, King of Hell. I may not have the armor of God, nor His authority, but I will cast you into that prophetic lake of sulfur and watch you suffer for ever and ever, you damned wretch.”

“That’s Satan.” Lucifer corrects. He instantly looks like he regrets his gall. “Uh, Revelations is, ahhh, about Satan. Not me. Different Sin. Sure, humans mix us up but I’m really sure they are talking about rawr-gawr dragon Satan for that one."

Alastor bares his teeth, gone black and dripping from his foray into eldritch fashion that evening, “Then you will have a swim buddy, Your Majesty. Now. Get. Out.”

“I have a right to be with my daughter even if you don’t want me here.” Lucifer argues weakly.

“Shall we take that trip down memory lane? Do you have a right? What right do you have? Assisting in her retrieval after your indecision led to her capture? Useless to defend either of your children, powerful king and protector that you are. Or the time you burned down her home, all to capture her, to take her from me, who has more right to her than any other, the only one who can protect her, willing to risk everything for her.” 

He pulls her body tighter against his chest. Their hard breathing has synchronized and he feels that her heart beats in time with his own. Her cries have dampened into whimpers in his strong, familiar grip. She must know that he, her mother, will protect her against any threat, any nightmare, real or imagined, angel or demon. His own, she is his own, she is his only, his heart beating anew, his future given meaning, a light in a lifetime of shadows, his Lenore, his child, his legacy and his downfall.

Black tears drip and stain her fresh washed curls. 

“Now, now, as an entire hotel strategizes and prepares for a kangaroo court hearing, still trying in the face of inevitable failure, you fuck back off to your workshop in your ivory tower and hide from Heaven again. Unable to face the music. Unwilling to fight a losing battle for the sliver of chance we might have.”

Charlie must be truly getting to him if he can maintain hope at this low point.

“That’s not true!” Lucifer shouts, stricken. “You have no idea how hard I have been working to win this. I trust you, you and Charlie, to deal with Heaven’s rules. That does not mean I’m not working so hard too!”

Lenore suffers a coughing fit at that moment. It breaks up whatever Lucifer had been struggling to explain, if there had been anything to explain.

“Poor little king. You failed to submit your written testimonial, you know. So we have three hundred written declarations that Lenore is safe with her loving, attentive, dedicated parents. It is just too bad her father could not find time to fill out a bit of paperwork.” Alastor leans in, careful to keep up his shield, to put that bit of protection between Lenore and the King. “So, tell me, King of Hell. Pray tell what right do you have to my daughter.” 

Lucifer opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Clears his throat with a thick cough into his fist. His face is shining wet. Alastor does not doubt he would be saddened by the loss of his daughter. 

“The petition may be stronger without your inclusion. Your dealings with Heaven have never worked out well for Hell, have they.” 

“It’s late. We can talk again in the morning. We need to talk. I won’t…I won’t give up. I’ll do this right. I’ll fix this.” Lucifer whispers. It is a broken sound, in the odd way his angelic voice gets, sliding between octaves instead of truly breaking.

Oh, Alastor will break him if necessary.

Lucifer leaves through the door, for once, and it’s a pity. Alastor was so looking forward to the waiting gris gris dolls, creeping beneath the bed and dresser, the microphone tap waking them up, to activate at that unauthorized bit of magic and hunt the Devil through the hotel until each returned with a pound of burnt angelic flesh for their master.

Alas, he instead sends them off to their own devices until he has further need. 

Two find a pair of dice beneath the conference table. They can’t see, of course, being dolls, but simply having something to do is enough for two soulless assorted bits of fluff and fabric. The rattle and vibration of the die is such that neither notice the click of the clock above them.

29 DAYS TO GO

The lobby is quiet the next morning. Vaggie had declared it a day off trial prep. Most of the staff, and all of the residents, took advantage of Lucifer’s offer for free admission to Lulu World. Charlie, anxious since breakfast, nearly hyperventilating that she may have used the verb approve instead of grant in the conclusion of their submission, had practically kidnapped Lenore after her mid-morning feeding to have girl time. 

Alastor permitted the kidnapping in acknowledgment of the royal blood, sweat, and tears soaked into the submission to Heaven. 

He also knows how to pick his battles and it was not one he wished to pick. Charlie has been working on expanding her abilities. Each time she discovers a fancy new power she runs down to the lobby to tell him. He doubts Charlie would have used violence in front of the baby, but he knows, from experience, the greater one’s power is the more difficult it is to hold it all in when emotions are high.

The break is not unwelcome. Each chime and tick of that damned countdown clock grates his nerves like parmesan in a cheap Italian restaurant. It reminds him that he may have his child on borrowed time. Of course, he will fight, never has backed down from one worth fighting. He typically comes out with his grin bloody with victory.

But he has lost before, despite his experience, despite his superior strategy and ability, simply because his opponents overpowered him.

The faint white scar on his chest is a fine souvenir of that particular experience.

The quiet is nice. He catches up on the periodicals. He peruses a draft recipe book sent over by Rosie. He summons down Lenore’s trunk of outfits, overstuffed and testing the latch more and more, and packs away a stack she has outgrown. He finally discards the last of the mitts, and a handful of lingering matchless socks that have been going solo for too many consecutive washes. 

(Baby socks must be a delicacy for some creature in this damned place.)

(Or frustrations at the laundry mat is a new addition to his eternal torment.)

The radio plays jazz without interruption. He considers locking up shop early and releasing a bit more pent up energy through a broadcast. 

“Hey.” 

Alastor glances up from his careful arrangement of ribbons. The collection is vast and he juuuuuuust might be able to iron them all in one pass of his hand if he can just fit them on the desk.

“Good morning, sir!” Alastor chirps. “Apologies for the mess! May I be of assistance?”

“Haha.” Lucifer deadpans. 

“Fresh towels? Therapy menu? We lack a concierge at the moment, but I can assist in locating an excellent locale you might fuck off to.”

“Alastor. Talk to me.”

“I was awfully clear last night.”

Lucifer, dressed down to his shirtsleeves, looks terrible. His hair is a mess of tousled curls under a halo of frizz. His shirt is wrinkled and inkstained. Deep lines of sadness warp his pleasing collection of features to that of a grump toad.

“You were, and you were right about most of it. But not all of it. I did turn in my statement last night. It took some time to write. I’ve been thinking.”

Alastor snorts, and can’t bite back the required insult: “It is nice to try something new, isn’t it?”

Canned laughter spills from the microphone propped behind the desk. 

“Time is a bit different for me.” Lucifer continues. It is an admirable tactic. Speak on and your audience will stay to listen if they were raised well. Alastor had been raised to be gentleman. “I have no biological clock. I don’t need to eat, or sleep. I like to, but I don’t need to. You need to. Lenore needs to. I’ve missed that routine. I’ve been a real shitty dad. We talked about that. Now I need to apologize for being a shitty boyfriend.”

“No need to explain to a mere sinner. I won’t keep you from Lenore for not warming my bedsheets.” Alastor says it casually. It is a mask. He tastes bile on his breath.

Lucifer blinks. “Thank you. But I do need to apologize. Uhh, time is different. Like I said. I used to spend years working in my workshop not speaking to anyone. Lillith waited for me. Then Charlie was born and she stopped waiting. I never apologized to her. Annnnd I’m not an idiot. Shut up.” He holds up a warning finger and Alastor’s mouth indeed snaps shut. “Contrary to popular belief, I can swallow my pride to admit I made mistakes then, and that I’m making them again now even if it’s for better reasons. I’m sorry, so sorry, if you felt ignored or forgotten or lonely. I have been working, for Lenore’s hearing, for us, and if I had just talked to you before it would have saved us both a lot of pain and suffering.”

He holds out his hand. 

His fingers are shaking.

“Please, come to the palace? A half hour of your time, tops. Afterwards you can toss me to the curb.”

Alastor plans to do so from the opposite curb. With luck, a passing motorist will receive a free refinishing in shades of gold. 

It would do no good to deny that he is curious about the Royal Palace. The gates were shut long before photography came to Hell, though artistic renderings can be found. It is one of the many pieces of Lucifer that Alastor has never been offered. Lucifer is a king, the King, and it is too easy to forget that when he is usually so busy being an idiot. 

The Palace is both nothing like Alastor could have imagined and oddly familiar. It is the light whimsy of Lucifer combined with the dark power of the Devil. There are no skeletons dangling from the ceiling, no moat of lava or blood, no medieval torture devices at the dinner table. It is what Alastor would picture a billionaire with an odd appreciation for the circus would commission during the Renaissance. Lucifer points out the more recent additions - if recent includes sculptures Lucifer himself carved 600 years prior - but keeps the pace quick.

There are rooms upon rooms upon rooms. 

One could easily get lost. 

In more ways than one.

“You lived here alone.” Alastor comments as they pass a third banquet hall.

Lucifer does not slow their pace. “Me and the staff, yeah.”

“Imps. In the servant’s quarters.” 

“I guess you can call them that. It’s just another wing, well, more of a small city than a wing, but, anyway, yeah, they usually kept to that .” He laughs, but it’s a hollow sound. “Charlie came back at the end of college for a bit and she practically lived in the library. Maybe I should have added internet and cable to my part of the castle waaaay sooner, huh?”

“The youth are so attached to their screens these days.” Alastor agrees in an act of such pity he is surprised Lucifer’s legendary pride doesn’t prickle. 

“Here.” Lucifer stops in front of an enormous mahogany door roughly five floors in height. It is engraved: the largest image is Lucifer in his demonic on his throne and he is surrounded by a thousand etchings of demons, the Sins, battle scenes, depictions of torture and depravity, pentagrams and, in so many places, the Queen. 

Alastor’s fingers betray him. His fingertips trace the scene of Lucifer in the garden, holding out the apple, and there is Lillith standing nearby with a grin splitting her face open wide.

“I think you’ll make it on there too, if you aren’t already. I can never guess what will show up next.” Lucifer says quietly. He raps on the door three times with his apple cane - hitting the spot Alastor’s fingers had been tracing - and it rises into the ceiling.

The Throne Room.

Lucifer did not need to play tour guide on this one. Large room. One throne. Nothing else. It is bathed in light, of all the colors of the rainbow, primarily red and gold. Ah, stained glass windows. More scenes of Hell’s history in the traditional, minimalist style of the medium. The Garden. Lucifer and the Sins. Lillith risen above Pentagram City with music notes and power around her. Charlie, Vaggie, and Alastor standing in front of the Hazbin Hotel.

Wait.

“A bit of redecorating. These ones are my personal favorites.” Lucifer offers. He takes Alastor’s limp hand and guides him to another set of windows.

On the right, a thin window of Lillith holding baby Charlie. On the left, a thin window of Alastor holding baby Lenore. In the middle is clearly a play on the very family photograph they included with their submission. Charlie sits on a throne with Lenore, flanked by Lucifer and Alastor, both with a hand on one of her shoulders. They are regal and far more formal in stained glass. The artist - Lucifer? - has kept to tradition and left out facial features to show smiles. Except for Alastor, whose grin is immortalized in glass as well as on his face.

“Not very many good things happen in Hell.” Lucifer says. “I try to celebrate when they do.”

“Lucifer…”

Alastor has noticed another window in which he features. It is small, a pane in a large display, it is him in his demonic form. The Radio Demon, victorious atop a pile of vanquished overlords, jagged grin and distorted proportions without edit. It is the demon Alastor had once been proud to be: ruthless, cunning, destructive. Here he is, among the fallen angels and geotic dramas.

“Trying to impress, I see.” Alastor says, thick crackle breaking up the words.

But Lucifer shakes his head. 

“This is a collection of this millennium's greatest hits. A newbie demon giving the hot shots a crash course in humility is the sin of pride. It would have been included even if I’d never had the honor to meet you.”

“Lucifer…”

“Time’s up. If you want to leave. I promised not to keep you. But, if you’ll stay, there is another indulgence I would ask for.”

“How very Catholic.”

“Hey, be nice.” Lucifer’s lips try to fight a smile and lose. “Can you play us a song? Something to dance to.” He breathes in deep - 

- and holds out his hand.

This time, Alastor’s fingers are shaking.

He plays the first song that comes to mind. It is not even a tune from his own lifetime; it’s something written decades after his death and made famous by that accursed silver screen. Alastor had appreciated it, though, and now it flows through his radio with more clarity than he usually manages, very nearly free of any white noise.

 

𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮Moon river, wider than a mile

I'm crossing you in style someday

Oh, dream maker, you heartbreaker

Wherever you're going, I'm going your way𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮

They move in perfect harmony. Alastor does not even protest when Lucifer takes the lead. The click of their heels is a singular sound against the polished stone floor. The pulse of Lucifer’s energy pushes against the wall of static that always builds around Alastor.  It hums through their intertwined fingers. Ancient magic, older than the universe itself, vibrant and welcoming Alastor into its web of protection, offering itself to him.

Lucifer jumps and does not come back down, wings fluttering in place with the lazy movements of a butterfly, now eye level with Alastor. Lucifer’s eyes sparkle . They are golden in the same way the sun sets on a lake, glittering and alive, with so much life within. 

 

𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮Two drifters off to see the world

There's such a lot of world to see𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮

 

Nerves on fire. Mind racing. Alastor is at real risk of falling - again - if he does not look away.

He does not look away.

He steps closer to the edge.

 

𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮We're after the same rainbow's end, waiting, 'round the bend

My Huckleberry Friend, Moon River, and me𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮

 

Lucifer lifts their arms into an arc and spins Alastor once, twice. He leans in. Lips so close for a kiss that does not come. Instead, he dips Alastor over his knee. He is cool water to Alastor’s fire, a reversal of their roles thus far in the trial period of their relationship. 

Alastor’s power itches under his skin. When he releases some of the pressure in his brain. The crackle of static gets stuck on the airwaves and spins into cotton candy wisps. Wisps form clouds. The clouds collide with the flow of the music, and they convalesce into thick swirls of fog around their legs.

Green lightning spiders within.

It is awfully loud within, white static and flicking channels, a persistent tone of feedback cutting through the fog. When Alastor attempts to take the lead, trying to guide them away from the growing mass of static fog, Lucifer fights the coup. He keeps them in the heart of the fog. Hell, Alastor thinks he does hear the beat of a heart beneath the music and fears he is broadcasting. The power gravitates to the King as if magnetized, collected like rain water in a barrel. 

Alastor pushes it with more force into Lucifer’s control.

Lucifer returns the gesture with interest. 

Alastor’s hands take on a golden glow against the green across Lucifer’s. 

They cast together.

Alastor spills some eldritch shadow into this plane of existence. It climbs the walls and ceiling, coating them in a slimy layer of black paint. 

Lucifer kisses him. When he pulls away, a trickle of eldritch ichor drips down his lips. 

The chandelier explodes. It is all darkness for a moment. Then a thousand golden specks of fire illuminate the night. Alastor laughs in delight and sends his own green stars to burn the sky. The false stars shift as they dance. They create constellations. Lucifer waltzes them in a circle and the floor lights up between their feet. Alastor lifts from the ground to place it among the stars. 

Their own private moon. 

The floor beneath their feet morphs into water. They dance across the top. The surface is a mirror image of their dance. Each step ripples the surface so it might have a future as a funhouse mirror in Lucifer’s absurd little theme park. 

The moon shines up above.

The sun shines in their reflection.

 

𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮Moon river, wider than a mile

I'm crossing you in style someday

Oh, dream maker, you heartbreaker

Wherever you're going, I'm going your way𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮

 

Emboldened, Alastor grabs that angelic power, letting go of Lucifer’s hand for a moment to fling it across the air waves. He sends a gust of wind after it for good measure. Thick swirls of green and gold light fly heavensward and burst in a spray of fire and earth. Willow trees grow where the bulk of it lands. Vines of shimmering gold rise from the faux water and weave around the trunks in complicated patterns. 

 

𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮Two drifters off to see the world

There's such a lot of world to see𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮

 

Magic flows over Alastor, warm and golden, soaking his hair and coating his clothing in a fine dust. Lucifer whips them around impossibly fast, an anthesis to the slow pace of their song. Alastor thinks he hears the violin accompaniment speed up as they spin. Golden glitter sprays around them and catches on thin air, suspended, waiting. A spotlight in their new night for a dance performed before no audience.

Lucky break too: that energy dissolves into idle swaying as Lucifer settles his forehead to Alastor’s chest. Alastor wraps an arm around his shoulders to hold him close, taking the lead without a falter in his step for the final lyrics, and fading music, of their song.

 

𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮We're after the same rainbow's end, waiting, 'round the bend

My Huckleberry Friend, Moon River, and me𝅘𝅥𝅮🎵𝅘𝅥𝅮

 

They sway even though the song is gone. Tracing the shapes against Lucifer’s back, Alastor crafts two shadow swans and releases them with care into an open spot on the lake. 

Lucifer giggles. He winks when Alastor raises a brow and breaks their grip once more to wiggle his fingers at the shadow swans. Their necks shorten as shadows come out of their elegant heads. One clearly having a top hat while the other gets…antlers. 

Alastor glares and makes sure to scoop some more shadow away from the Lucifer duck to better reflect their difference in size.

With another, deeper laugh, Lucifer molds two pools of light mid-air into, what else, ducks. One is noticeably larger than the other. Lucifer sends them on their way. The tiny duck finds her place next to the Alastor duck and quacks silently at him.

“No doubt asking for a feeding.” Alastor murmurs.

Lucifer laughs, and Alastor does too.

Every exhalation pours more magic into the environment and the beauty around them crescendos. Lucifer tips their foreheads together. He exhales directly into Alastor’s mouth, and the demon can taste his power like bubbling champagne. It makes him dizzy just the same. Strong arms encircle and lock around his chest.

“Look at me.” Lucifer breathes. Alastor tastes fried apples and blood. A hint of hellfire burns in the Devil’s eyes. “Trust me, Alastor, my lovely, my love, and hold on.”

It is all the warning Lucifer gives.

The ground vanishes from beneath Alastor’s feet. 

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech

Panicked radio feedback rips through the delicate ecosystem. One of the weeping willows is uprooted and falls hard on the ground. The crash is muffled by the faux lake to a dull thud. A handful of stars fall. They catch and burn on the “water” like festival bonfires. The shadow ducks ruffle their shadow feathers and nudge the light ducks away from the fallen willow.

Alastor holds Lucifer’s head in a vice grip. His claws thread through golden curls. They become wet with golden blood as he digs them into the fallen angel’s skull. He curls his legs around Lucifer’s waist and must look ridiculous folded up like that.

“Shhh, I got you. You won’t fall. I’ll catch you if you do.” Lucifer assures and, actually, that is not very reassuring if one considers the “if” of it all. It’s a muffled reassurance since his face is being held tight against Alastor’s chest. 

The air feels thinner up here, wherever they are, and Alastor starts to hyperventilate. 

“Okay, okay, easy there. Back to the ground. Alastor? Al? Hey - we’re back. One foot at a time annnnnnd there you go!” 

“Don’t you ever - ever - do you hear me, ever -” 

“Loud and clear, babe. Radio Demons are flightless deers. On the no fly list, for sure. Actually, you probably would have ended up on the no fly list, huh? If planes were around in your time.”

Alastor puffs up in offense on so many different parts of that appalling statement.

“First, all cervids are flightless, you rube. Second, the plural form of deer does not have an ‘s’ and there is no plural for Radio Demon as there is one total, thank you. Third, the Golden Age of Aviation was well within-”

Lucifer pulls him in for another lip bruising kiss.

When the clock chimes to tick away another day, Alastor rolls over in bed and pulls Lucifer closer against him.

28 DAYS TO GO

Chapter 25

“I think I got it!” Charlie announces one bright hellish morning a week or so later.

Lucifer had joined Alastor in the parlor not ten minutes before, pushing aside carefully balanced paperwork from the cushion next to the demon without an iota of care, grabbing Lenore up from her tiny chair to smack loud kisses on her face. Alastor rolls his eyes and gestures that Shadow, in the role of eldritch clown for the baby’s amusement, may stop its antics.

It relocates at the King’s feet in a swirl of green and black. Lenore spots it, smile sharpening with joy, and it pops under the couch with a wink. 

It pops back up with its chin on Lucifer’s knee and waggles its fingers at the sides of its head. 

“Yooooowza wow!” The King yelps.

Alastor raises a brow.

“Cold,” comes the muttered reply.

Shadow is gone when Alastor redirects his attention to the nuisance.

“Is that your silly friend? Is he so silly? Is my baby so silly? So silly! So silly! Silly!” Lucifer coos to the baby as he tickles her stomach. She squeals out a long string of bubbling laughter, eyes squeezed shut, body tensed up from the assault.

Shadow pops out again and it sends her nearly into hysterics. Lucifer bounces her on his knee. It inspires Shadow to pantomime being struck with each bounce. It exaggerates the force in the two and three feet heights it reaches. That sends the two into another round of manic giggles.

Alastor snaps his fingers.

Shadow, with the mopey frown of a sad puppy, twists its head at the powerful compulsion to obey. It slides under the couch and up the wall behind them.

Pouting.

“You are an impressive bit of soul magic, and it would, literally, hurt me to destroy you, but do not delude yourself that I would not.” Alastor warns.

“Fuck, you’re sexy when you’re mean.” Lucifer whistles.

“Hmm. Disappointing. I was aiming for terrifying.”

They transition into an unnecessarily passionate discussion on whether Lenore should be permitted into the bed mid-way through the night when she wakes for her night feeding. She always began in the bassinet but, at first feeding, wound up sprawled between and over her parents.

“Consistency fosters independence.” Alastor argues. “She has consistently been with me in the night from the moment of her creation.”

“Independence fosters independence! Like sleeping independently in her own bed. Al, come on. You know I love baby cuddles in bed. But I spend half the night worried I’m squishing her and the other half worried she is going to fall right off the edge.” Lucifer shoots back.

“It seems the solution would be to revert to your absence from the equation. In the name of consistency. ” 

“Ouch.”

“Oh, did you not find that sexy? Rather inconsistent.”

Then Charlie had made her announcement and interrupted the opportunity to continue this bizarre form of flirtation.

“What’s that, sweetie?” Lucifer asks. He smiles at his eldest as his youngest turns her attention to the apple cane leaning against his thigh. Chubby fingers wiggle and reach. Clever thing she is, she gets her feet involved and very nearly hooks it in a kick.

“I think I figured out how mom…you know. Figured it out. How to get pregnant. It’s kind of like a recipe. With ingredients."

Lucifer’s cane topples over with a thud onto the carpet, to Lenore’s dismay, but he does not seem to notice.

“You did.” He says, swallowing hard, blinking too much.

“And here you did your research, Sire.” Alastor teases. He picks up the cane and places it well out of reach of their child. He does not know if it has the power his own staff holds, but he is not relying on Lucifer to monitor the ancient artifacts around their child. “What was the spell, dear?” 

“Well, so I figured out the basics of it." Charlie reddens. "Not like that! Not really the specifics-”

“-thank Father.” Lucifer mutters. 

“Yeah. Wasn’t looking into that part.” Charlie agrees with a wince. “But! Here’s what I got, and it’s a lot! VAGGIE! Oh.”

Her girlfriend, having entered when Charlie’s back was turned, gets a face full of shouting. 

Vaggie twists a finger in her ear. “Present.” She hands over a tri-fold board from where it is tucked under her arm. Charlie pushes the coffee table out of the way. After evaluating her space with her hands on her hips, kicks an armchair. The force of it sends the piece of furniture crashing towards the doorway.

And into Angel Dust, just arriving.

“SHIT!” 

“SORRY! Sorry sorry sorry!” Charlie, more carefully, pushes the armchair out of the way and helps the demon back onto his feet.

“The thanks I get!” Angel brushes off his clothing. “Free babysitting services and wham-bam-no-thank-you-man! Lucky she’s a cutie patootie.” He lifts the baby out of Lucifer’s grip with his lower set of arms. His top set remain crossed.

“Hey!” The King of Hell protests.

“Tough, daddy-o, we gotta check a fit real quick.” 

“You got-tah obtain the consent of the parents prior to taking a child out of their care and custody.” Alastor says, annoyed, arms crossed and brow low. “Once this madness is concluded, Charlie will be instituting a mandatory program on manners. Honestly! The absolute gall!”

“Oh, it’s fine!” Lucifer insists quickly to Angel. Then notices the dimming light and shadow hands clawing their way across the couch. “As long as it’s fine with Al! Parents. Two. Both permissions. Us two. Mostly Al. Actually, Alastor, babe, is it okay if-”

“Fine.” Alastor concedes. He draws in the shadows back in. 

“Charlie did ask.” Angel says, sniffing in offense.

They turn to Charlie, who smacks her forehead. Hard. “Fuck! I’m doing it again! Sorry! Sorry! I just…thought this was a good thing to talk about without baby cuteness distracting us? I asked Angel this morning. I’m so, so sorry, Al. I should have asked. Fuck!”

“Language.” Lucifer, Alastor, and Angel chorus in unison.

Alastor crosses his legs, placing his hands on his knee with deliberate primness. “It is quite alright, dear. She is your sister. Angel, thank you for your time. You and Cherri are given access to my room for her wardrobe and necessary supplies.”

Once the demon leaves, Charlie flips over the tri-fold board. There are three columns, each covered in pink sheets of paper, hiding whatever is presumably written beneath. Vaggie assumes her post next to the board.

Charlie folds her hands behind her back.

She begins.

“Ehem. Dad. Alastor. I have spent many late nights in the Royal Library researching the issue of how Lucifer - that’s you, Dad - had two beautiful children despite the odds.” She gestures with an open palm to the board.

Vaggie pulls off the first sheet. Underneath is a pinned, rather childish, drawing of Charlie and Lenore.

“How to make a baby in Hell.” Charlie bends to get a book out of her totebag. The cover reads: Demon Human Biology, 2nd Edition. “The Birds and the Bees. Or the Angel and the Sinners.”

Lucifer looks on with the dopey grin of a proud parent videotaping their middle schooler’s mediocre band concert. Charlie grins shyly at having her father's full attention and her nervous energy is infectious. Alastor uncrosses his legs so one is free to fidget irritably against the carpet.

“We know that Mom used a spell. A spell is, at its core, just magic arranged and given specific instruction to effectuate a result. Magic needs direction to be a spell, and a spell needs the right magic to work. For example, an angel can chant all day long but they’ll never get to summon Lucifer - you, Dad - unless there is demonic energy available in the ingredients for the summoning. Like the energy in pentagrams. Sinners can't call on my demonic power using prayer, because prayer only works with Angelic magic. So what type of magic and spell are we looking at here?”

Another sheet is plucked from the board. 

  Magic

Angelic    Demonic

 

“Experts generally recognize two major types of pure power - those angelic and those demonic in origin. Both are present at creation: at birth or at death. However, as time went on, there came a greater diversity in magical sources, offshoots of the original power. These other sources must be harvested or collected instead of being given at time of creation.”

Vaggie takes two sheets off the board.

 

Magic

Angelic     Demonic

Nature     Elemental

Psychic        Dream

Chaos        Cosmic

Mirror       Shadow

“Non-exhaustive list of examples.” She adds, gesturing with another broad sweep of her hand. “Problem is there are fertility spells in, like, all types of magic. So the best way to track the specific spell Mom used down would be to get information on what happened during the spell’s activation period and try to match it to a spell.” 

The spreading of red across her cheeks and nose is telling.

Alastor perks up.

What an absolute delightful opportunity to dig further into this fresh horror! 

“Yes, Lucifer, do tell us all in detail about the night of Charlotte’s conception!” He snaps his fingers and a notepad and pen appears in the women’s hands. Charlie blanches, eyes wide, and drops the items like they bit her.

Lucifer glares, “There is an extra special place in Hell for you, asshole. It’s called the couch.”  

“Not a very consistent bed arrangement.”

“That’s…literally the point though? AND you can’t use the ‘consistent’ thing to-”

“Anyway!” Vaggie interrupts. “We do not want that information. Just shut up and listen. The one fact we have is that sacrifice is involved, right? Probably an activator thingy?”

Lucifer nods, with a shrug, in a quasi-confirmation. “Lil, said it wasn’t just for power when…That she wouldn’t have done that until it needed to be done. She wouldn't have unless it was absolutely necessary. She wasn't cruel.” He insists quietly.

Charlie, with far less gusto than before, pulls the piece of paper off the second column.

Sacrifice

“Sacrifice is a power source,” she says solemnly, “and can be the activator for a spell. Usually sacrifice is associated in demonic magic, given the particular slant towards the loss of life or innocence. Both, in m-my case. Mom really picked the heavy hitter for me, huh?” 

Her lips quiver and twitch. Alastor recognizes the movement as the attempt to smile, much like his own lips had tried, fruitlessly, during his first years in Hell to twist into a drown. But Charlie, a girl who could smile in an acid rain storm as her boots disintegrated in the puddles, could not make light of this particular brand of horror.

Even Alastor, who had committed atrocities, murdered his own grandfather and his nominal father, responsible for his own mother’s death, cannibal and producer of mayhem and chaos, drew the line at harming the innocent.

Vaggie puts an arm around Charlie’s shoulders and the two murmur together before Charlie, after several deep breaths, continues. Together, they tear off the next group of sheets.

Sacrifice

Human

Animal

Blood

Virgin(ity)

Labor

Grain/Fruit

Drink/Libations

Money

“Non-exhaustive.” Charlie and Vaggie say in unison. 

Vaggie squeezes Charlie closer again and continues the explanation. “Sacrifice is common in ancient magic. Human sacrifice, like Charlie said, is associated with demonic magic, but it's not exclusive. Some of the more nature and chaos based spells require it for advantages in war and for weather manipulation.”

“Alastor. We have to ask…did you...?” Charlie cringes and looks at her feet, clearly upset by her own question.

A hand lands on Alastor's fidgeting knee and holds it down with a solid pressure.

“No.” Lucifer answers for him. His tone brooks no argument. “He didn’t. He wouldn’t. And it wasn’t something we planned. We were drunk. Really, really drunk. So, unless Al did some light sacrifice before - what? What’s that look?”

“You have got to be kidding me.” Alastor grimaces. The movement pulls at the green strings that hold his smile in place. His gaze is locked on the damned tri-fold and that damnable damned list. He can admit the bulk of his frustration comes from the fact that he had not seen it earlier.

“I’m really not.” Charlie says when there is no follow up from either of her audience members.

Alastor grinds his teeth. A sound emits from his radio like nails on a chalkboard. His ears are pressed tight against his skull to block it out. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He wants to block it all out and it is obvious it needs to come out. He grips the cushion of the sofa and his claws puncture the fabric and dig out white puffs of stuffing as he collects his pride.

“Al? Do you need a break?” Lucifer tries to take his hand but Alastor smacks it away. He also smacks the hand on his knee away.

Lucifer is damned lucky Alastor doesn’t smack him.

“No. It is merely that we might ponder if a virgin sacrifice may meet this criteria.” He finally grits out.

“Far be it from me to judge your hobbies, babe, but finding a virgin in Hell is like looking for a four-leaf clover in Eden.” Lucifer says. He is clearly not picking up what Alastor is so obviously putting down. How this all-powerful, ancient being survived all this time without Alastor is a mystery no Royal Library and enthusiastic regal nerd can piece out.

“Well, well done you! I should say, you got lucky in more ways than one that night! ” Alastor extracts his other hand from the sofa and examines his claws as he waits for Lucifer to catch up.

The moment it clicks comes with a delicious look of horror on Lucifer’s pleasant features.

“No. No. No no no, Alastor, no. You weren’t…I didn’t…hahahahaha, no!”

“I was. You did.” 

“I was…you…oh! Oh, that…and you…and I just…without…just…we were.. . we downed like half the bar and a jug of moonshine! We were sloppy. For…Oh fuck, it sucked!”

Alastor does take some satisfaction from Lucifer’s guilt-ridden panic, but he can be merciful.

(It just usually is not worth his while.)

He leans down, lips barely brushing the points of Lucifer’s ears, and murmurs, voice radio rich and warm with affection, “Hmm, sucking might have improved satisfaction considerably in hindsight, darling.”

That seems to bring Lucifer a bit back to himself. Unable to resist, apparently forgetting his eldest child is still in the room, he lays the whole Tempter act on thick. He turns his face towards Alastor’s in an arc, lips nearly brushing, and says, in a voice better suited for the bedroom, “I have some hindsight that says you have since been very satisfied.”

Damn his eyes, Alastor blushes. 

“Okay! That’s…good.” Charlie says. Ever the perfect daughter, not wanting to acknowledge that her father, the Devil, is a little fucked up because it might hurt his feelings. But she shakes her head as if to bruise and reshape the memory of the last two minutes forcing formation in her mind.

“Ew. No.” Vaggie is unconcerned (correctly) with people pleasing. Even when 'people' is the Devil and her potential father-in-law. Her lip curls in disgust; it is a particularly unattractive expression and, honestly, one day Alastor will need to speak with her about maintaining a more pleasing expression. “That’s actually something I never needed to know, but we’ll say that counts. So, Alastor’s cherry got popped during your drunken one night stand. Cool. I’ll stab my ear drums out later. Let’s move on to the actual point of this presentation.”

“THANK YOU!” Charlie exclaims. She blushes and clears her throat, returning to her presentation tone, “On to ingredient three!” Charlie announces and this time rips off the paper herself. “Power!” She sings operatically, adding jazz hands. “Dad. You are powerful.”

“Very.” Lucifer smirks.

“How does that saying go? Not the size of the ship but the motion -” Alastor is interrupted when Vaggie's notepad hits him square in the chest and he bleats, more in surprise than pain.

The others wisely choose to ignore the sound.

“But that was the problem, according to Aunt Bel.” Charlie marches on.

Vaggie takes over again. “While Charlie looked up the magic and spells, I went through about a bazillion contracts forged by the Queen. A lot of soul contracts. Like you said.” She nods at Lucifer. “Almost all made in the decade or so leading up to when the spell was cast, and then no new contracts are signed. But look.” She tears off the last sheet of paper and reveals a pasted on photograph. The image is of a sigil that looks almost like that of the…

The Radio Demon.

“What the fuck.” Alastor says. Not a question. He doubts he will get an answer from this lot. A declaration of his bafflement. It is calm for all that his radio short circuits. His static hum is low, turned down by the surprise of the reveal. He stares at the tri-fold. For such a poor quality visual aid, he has spent a good portion of their discussion staring at it intently. To the ill-informed it bears uncanny likeness to The Radio Demon’s sigil. Worse, it is a photograph, slightly blurred, of an aged, weathered document. The ink has bled and smudged the finer details. 

There are too many lines creeping far too high.

Not to mention it is dated before his own date of birth.

“That’s not mine.” He finally says.

“We know.” Charlie says. “But, you have to admit, it is pretty close.”

Alastor’s leg bounces again against the floor, in irritation and as an outlet for the rising panic in his chest, “I created mine when I arrived in Hell. It takes inspiration from traditional voodoo symbolism…”

He trails off as Lucifer has his own Eureka! moment by the slack jawed look on his face.

“Oh. Oh, fuck.”

Oh, fuck is right. 

Alastor is having a veritable cinema sized bucket of popping Eureka! moments.

He had not thought deeply on the subject. He had left it as a mystery, locked away in the cellar, buried in the backyard, thrown to the gators on a moonless night. Lenore was here. It had not mattered how, he reasoned to himself, refusing to dive too deep. She was here regardless of how. He hadn’t known. He hadn’t needed to know.

Because, deep in his heart, he knew he might find the answer if he looked.

Sinners cannot procreate. Lucifer had insisted on that fact. Lillith, through borrowed magic, had overcome that barrier. But she was Lillith, the First Woman, not a common sinner. Stronger than an Overlord. Born in Eden and blessed with the ability to conceive in life.

Nothing in common with Alastor but the man who fucked them.

Not so, it seems. One more connection. The shadow over Alastor’s existence, his life, his afterlife. He so had wanted Lenore to be free from Her to the point of his own willful ignorance. She could not have Lenore because Lenore was light and She was shadowy darkness. Alastor had not called on Her. No incantations had fallen from his lips. He had not given his sacrifice in Her name. It had been for himself. For Lucifer. For them both, two drunken fools -

His mouth is dry but he can taste that night on his tongue.

Apples. 

Cinnamon. 

Ginger. 

Orange.

Ingredients common in fertility charms.

And in the basic moonshine recipe taught to him by his voodoo practicing drunken father.

Distilled in the bayou, an ecosystem's own shadow magic, fed on his memories, his shadows, instructing it to be more than an echo of the past, giving it life in a land of death. He left parts of his humanity in the shadows of the bayou it represents.

Voodoo.

Yes… yes…She would appreciate a sacrifice here, in his world of shadows, after God and His Angels, Lucifer included, sacrificed Her to start it all. She would accept it as her due.

Voodoo.

Born of Her power. Magic of the shadows. Reliant on spirits of another world more than the most devout Christianity. Voodoo practitioners not only honored the spirits: they expected them to answer when called on. A religion built on the broken stones of Christianity. Following Christianity like a shadow. Practiced in plain sight as much as it is hidden. 

Worse, so much worse.

Dambala, one of the loa, the loa, creator of the world. Oh, for fuck’s sake, Lucifer - the serpent at creation, damning Her to the shadows. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The serpent - the embodiment of fertility in voodoo practice. 

They drank the moonshine. 

The intention. All Voodoo is intention. Ha! Back to Birds and the Bees, old boy! Basic sexual education. The purpose of sex, the original purpose, the only purpose as the church will teach the sheep, is reproduction.

Alastor drank a fertility potion, offered his virgin ass to the literal voodoo sex symbol, and, considering who he is, had he really expected to come out on the other side without consequence?

No. 

There were always consequences. Every action has an equal, opposite reaction. He may not have expected this - he couldn’t have expected her - but he had never deluded himself into thinking his night with the King of Hell was without consequence.

He had not expected her.

“You know who this symbol belongs to.” Vaggie observes, breaking into his thoughts.

“So do you.” Lucifer shoots back.

“And do you?” Charlie asks Alastor. 

He glares at her and declines to answer the question.

He can’t answer.

She can’t hear.

“This discussion is done.” Alastor stands. It is imperative he leave this situation before it gets worse. Before they say and before he hears. She is listening. She is always listening. Hidden in the shadows and his world is shadows and She is shadows and he is shadows and, oh gawd, is she...

“Wait. What?” Charlie blinks.

“End of discussion. Case closed.” He brushes past the trio, eyes straight ahead.

“Alastor.” She reaches out her arm, as if she might be stupid enough to grab his and get hers torn out of its socket. Her arm drops limply by her side. 

“You did good work, Char char. We can take it from here.” Lucifer assures her. He reads Alastor’s body language loud and clear. He understands the danger, might be the only other being in Hell who understands that, that compared to Her, Adam was about as bad as a third grade bully on the playground.

“If E-” Vaggie shouts after him, wisely cutting herself off by the instant appearances of the Devil and the Radio Demon. Shadow and fire confuse the room’s temperature, waves of heat slap against cold static, sounding out - crack crack crack - as if to discourage any attempt at further discussion. 

A separate, slightly cooler, heat wave sandwiches the static and dampens the noise.

“That’s not fair!” 

Charlie is in her demonic form. Her hair flies wildly around her. It is not the first time Alastor has seen her like this. It is the first he has had that fury directed at him. 

“I’m not a child! I - I do so much! I try so hard and…and you don’t trust I’m ready to be more than your fucking little Char Char. The delusional nerdy princess! I’m the Princess of Hell. I’m ready to know!” 

The lamp explodes into flames.

A spark catches on the sofa.

The Devil stifles it with a glance. Calm, far calmer than Alastor has ever seen him in this form, he reaches up to touch his daughter’s chin. “I know. I do know. This is not about you - no, listen! - you are more mature, you are better than I ever will be. We aren’t talking behind your back. We aren’t talking about it at all. None of us.” He looks at Alastor, and nods, “This is to keep Al safe, alright?” He jabs a finger toward the tri-fold, knocked on the ground in the chaos. “That is a problem that does not get spoken about." Her eyes blink back to normal. She hears and she understands. "At least for now. Father knows we have enough to worry about right. Let me think on it. We’ll regroup after things calm down.” He slides his hand up to rub a thumb against her cheek. “I am so proud of who you have become, Charlie. Every one is. This was really, really good work. But I’m asking you, as a favor to your old man, please put it on pause for now.”

“Okay.” She sniffs. "For Al."

They embrace, an extended moment where Alastor and Vaggie are left staring awkwardly at each other, before they all work silently to set the parlor back to rights. Then Alastor sinks into the shadows and sweeps his way around the hotel. He tells himself he will look into his baby’s happy face and not look for shadows. But they are everywhere for the Radio Demon, a demon of shadows.

He never looks for shadows. 

They always find him.

19 DAYS TO GO

The Hazbin Hotel is still a semi-functioning hotel and locale for redemptive aspirations. Alastor is still the Hotelier. Residents still reside. Niffty cleans. Angel and Cherri break up petty drama in the lobby. Vaggie breaks up x-rated displays of PDA in the hallways (and elevators and therapy rooms and the gardens and...) A barebones therapy schedule is managed. The Union thrives.

Charlie is still the rainbow-and-sprinkles owner of the hotel. As owner, when she gives an order, her hotelier is expected to follow it through. Granted, the meek little darling never fails to bury the so-called order in run-on sentences and hedging. If Alastor were a lesser-demon, if he had no self-respect, if he had not been raised a gentleman, he would have taken the dozen opportunities available in the poorly phrased order to avoid completing it.

Alastor’s mother raised him to be a gentleman.

Gift baskets.

A small token of their appreciation for the resident’s canvassing and heartfelt testimonials in support of the hearing. Charlie’s idea, of course. Now that the submission is completed it will not look like bribery. Alastor cannot begin to guess why she had avoided the appearance of bribery or the act itself in the completion of the Custody Manifesto, but he digresses. 

She had been wringing her hands during the dreadful process of delegating the task. She has been so hesitant to ask Alastor to do anything since his return. Not that Alastor had the time to totally complete even his heavily reduced schedule and duties.

He is, admittedly, proud that she came to him with this one.

“What a delightful thought!” He simpers

“They don’t have to be very big! Just cookies and, maybe, wellll, Dad got some gift cards to Evil Donuts. And Ass-modeus, but, like, I think we have enough horniness to deal with around here without the residents discussing getting railed by this week’s new models in group. ” Charlie scrunches her nose. 

Whatever do model trains have to do with a sex shop?

“I’ll tell your father the greater good of this establishment necessitates we make use of that particular shop’s offerings.” His grin sharpens at the word we and he can see Charlie’s face war between shades of green and red. 

How festive!

In the end, he banishes her from the kitchen when it appears she is attempting to help. He has seen her efforts on gift baskets. There is no way in Lucifer’s Fiery Hell that Alastor is allowing his daughter’s name to be associated with such mediocrity.

Alastor does not bake. He is a dab hand at the stove and can whip up a pot of jambalaya to leave your mouth watering. He does not suppose the residents would find their gift card soaked in a leaking basket of gumbo.

Surprises of surprises, and luck be his lady that day, help comes from an unexpected corner. Standing at 8’1” with heels, 7’5” without, body count in the thousands - so this announcer is informed! - welcome to the arena: Angel Dust!

The Spider Demon takes over baking cookies with unrestrained glee. He prattles on about learning at his mother’s apron, and then learning how to adjust recipes for Hell’s temperature and humidity. He offers to make “space cakes” and giggles when Alastor hasn’t the foggiest what those are.

Six arms are better than two. 

Two hands alternate between mixing and stirring batter and shaping dough balls.

Two hands paint and decorate cooled cookies.

Two hands keep the space clean, put trays of unbaked dough in the oven and then pull trays of golden circles out of the oven.

And Alastor helps!

Or, well, his shadow minions package and tie together cookies in an assembly line fashion.

Work smarter, not harder.

Plus, frustrating to a demon who ties ribbons into golden curls on a daily basis, the small size of the bows on the cookie package is not conducive to his large red claws. He has a pile of shredded ribbon at his elbow to attest. 

Angel Dust prattles on and on about his personal diary. It is so beyond the typical conversation Alastor has come to expect, and tune out, from the Porn Star that he is tricked into paying attention. Not a personal diary, as it would appear, but an online blog. Surprises of surprises, it is a written blog and not one of the finagled vee-deo podcasts or vee-logs that short-circuited philistine has utilized to hypnotize the masses.

(Not that Vox has been active since Alastor beat him)

“I want ‘em to listen, ya know? When I’m on screen…they..they don’ care. They don’ see me. Husk was right.” Angel says and gestures menacingly with his icing spatula. “Don’ repeat that to the pussy cat, capisce?”

Alastor mimes a zipping of lips, and a trail of green thread materializes in wake of his pinched fingers.

“They weren’ s’posed t’see me.”

“I am woefully, thankfully, ignorant, my dear starlet, but you being viewing for their viewing pleasure is rather the point?”

 “It’s not me, tho, not really.” Angel picks up a paintbrush in his upper right hand and swirls dark pink across the wet pastel surface. “Angel Dust the whore. He was okay fer vids. Wasn’ me tho.”

With his lower left hand, he pinches up some glitter and sprinkles it lightly on the cookie. He is quiet for a minute. His hands continue their work: scoop, paint, roll, maneuver, tie. It truly is a talent. So many demons these days are barely able to hold a conversation. Angel Dust is able to converse with a level of depth and multitask with six separate limbs.

Perhaps, as opposed to Alastor’s viewpoint that the resident-in-name-only should be excluded from their staff meetings, the demon should have a greater weight of responsibility placed on his shoulders.

“The written word is superior.” Alastor agrees when the silence runs long.

“S’funny.” Angel Dust says. He picks up a fresh cookie and elects to use the running liquid he has termed “royal icing” (why it is not used on all the baked goods involving his daughter’s name, Alastor cannot guess). He applies a generous layer of white. Tips it left and right. Then he dips a clean brush in the black tinted icing bowl and starts painting in broad strokes. Focused on his creation, he finally follows up on his thought. “Got little to no activity on the first post. Dead air, ya might say.”

“Fame is a fickle mistress.” Alastor muses. He collects three dried cookies and wraps them in stiff plastic. His claws shred another ribbon as he attempts to tie it together.

Angel Dust’s uppermost right hand collects it without comment and wraps it in fresh ribbons.

“S’not under Angel Dust. Anonymous. I, uh, got the idea from you.”

Alastor blinks. “From me?”

“Kinda.” Angel concedes. He picks up a third clean brush and dips it in a thicker, yellow icing. “You was the Radio Demon, rawr-rawr, mister freaky face murda machine, and then Lenny came ‘round and you was just…it made ya human.” 

“One,” Alastor holds up a finger, “it is Lenore, that is her nickname from her proper name. Two,” another finger rises, “I am as human as you, my dear fellow, which is to say: not at all.”

“Yea, soul an’ all, that human bit is still there. The part we can change.” Angel insists.

Alastor swallows against the instinctive unease that always rises in his gut at the thought of his soul. It is not fair to compare his soul to others, the ones who began with a clean slate, with the power of free will. Human souls start with the ability to choose, and so much of Alastor’s life before death had been out of his control. So much darkness…so many shadows…

“Well, always a pleasure to inspire.” He says instead.

“But, yea, you jus’ was yerself. No bullshit, no masks. Is’ my story, not Angel Dust the whore’s secrets, x-rated, $9.99 special. Jus’ Anthony.” 

“Ah.”

Most demons choose to use non de plumes in Hell. It is hard to look in the mirror and see a demon staring back where a human face once was. Hell tries to force nicknames on those who otherwise are satisfied with their own given names, as Alastor had been upon his arrival. The Radio Demon’s moniker had come about when the public was unaware Alastor, perceived as harmless, was responsible for the broadcasts. He had simply stepped into the title given to a faceless threat when he revealed himself.

“Do you prefer Anthony?” Alastor inquires.

“Nah, though I’m thinkin’ a’ droppin’ the Dust part. Angel’s fine.” 

“Our princess will be very proud of your progress.” Alastor says, aiming for offhanded professionalism to pull back the demon’s sentimentality. “Why, redemption may be around the corner! Shall I paint a bullseye on your forehead and fetch Lenore for a bit more target practice? Or shall we see if shredding souls is as effective as Holy Light?”

“Hardy-har.” Angel mock glares. “You try ta be the Big Bad Radio Demon, but the kiddo’s outed ya as a softy, my man. I seen it, this whole time, she got you lock stock week one. An’ I see ya with Short King, all lovey dovey, big radio hearts fer eyes, ha! Hang on, gotta look up and…”

The Spider Demon pulls out his phone (middle left hand) and unlocks it with a complicated swipe. Briefly, a picture of Angel and Lenore, both dressed in matching appalling pink outfits and bows, sparkles across their cheeks, pops up on the screen. It quickly disappears as Angel types out a line of text into another screen.

“That was a good photograph.” He says.

Angel smiles, glancing up, “Yeah, ya gotta real cute kid. She’s my dress up bud. Thanks again, fer letting me babysit.” He returns to his search and Alastor’s nod.

Alastor pauses. He thinks. He considers. He weighs the decision. He decides.

“Angel.” He starts, hesitant. His radio static crackles as he thinks hard on selecting his words. He attempts to strike for somewhere in the range of professional and practical, and fears he misses it from lack of having any substantive contract practice in well over a year. The last deal he made was with Charlie, and that was for Lenore’s protection and his wording was more for Charlie’s protection than to save his own dignity. 

“Angel.” He tries again.

“Al.” Angel smiles broadly.

“Would you consider, if you do not have a prior engagement, and if your schedule permits, understanding that you have no obligation to agree, and that your participation would certainly benefit our case, though the case will not hinge on your decision and so you should feel no pressure in accepting-”

“Hey! I may be a bonny-feed writer now, but ya still gotta dumb it down for a guy. Add a period in there!”

“Would you be a testifying witness at the hearing? To discuss your observation of…of myself with Lenore, and the benefits of the hotel.” He asks, voice sticking to the top of his mouth as the words fight to be said.

Angel drops his paint brush, and cookie. The baked good cracks in half. The paint brush tips onto a drying cookie, painted with a simplified version of a radio, and black royal icing splashes across the image.

“Al…” Angel says wetly.

“No pressure. It may be public, and I suspect the subject of your redemption journey would be shared, and you have already professed to sharing it anonymously…”

“I…ya really honor me here. Yes! Yes! Oh, buddy! Bring 'er in!" 

All he can do is stand in resignation as the Spider Demon hugs him too tight with six - yes, count them, six - arms. Which is precisely six more arms than Alastor typically permits of the demon. Today, in a fit of madness, he allows them. Six arms wrap around Alastor like ropes around a damsel in the old picture shows.

No good deed goes unpunished.

There is a price to pay at each toll in Hell. 

Angel pulls back and wipes at his face. Black eyeliner is smeared into a mockery of a mardi gras mask. But the demon is smiling as he sniffs. The heat of the oven must be getting to Alastor as well because his eyes sting too.

Alastor conjures up a handkerchief and presses it against his cheeks.

“Here, wanna eat this one? It’s busted.” Angel picks up the broken cookie and holds it out in offering.

Alastor takes the piece to examine the work. A pity, really, that he had broached the topic during the painting of this particular cookie. It was quite a good one, and Alastor might have asked for it to gift to Lucifer or Charlie. Angel had used the black icing for a set of antlers, majestic and strong, and beneath them is the intricate shape of a crown. Underneath that, half finished, is the beginnings of an apple - perhaps intended to be Lucifer’s sigil in the end.

Split clean down the middle.

Pity. But Alastor is not one for sweets and tosses it into his shadows to be disposed of later. Or to give to Lucifer that night for one of those dreadful late night snacks in bed.  The nonsense Alastor puts up with these days: crumbs in bed, a permanent spittle stain on his shoulder, and hugs from demons.

He smiles.

14 DAYS TO GO

Lenore is teething.

That is what the books tell Charlie. It is what Belphagor tells Lucifer after an emergency ("Not an emergency." The sleepy Sin yawns when she examines the cranky baby) house call. It is what about two dozen residents tell him in the lobby as he resists yanking his antlers out from overstimulation of his poor ears. 

It is awful.

His poor child rubs her tiny face and skull into his chest. She cries in a range from great gulping sobs to little whimpers. She flails and kicks when anyone who is not her mother attempts to comfort her. She does so with her mother as well, just less so. At least, Alastor thinks so. 

They try iced washcloths to no improvement. Lucifer purchases and offers every teething tool on the black market. He even shops legitimately when that doesn't work. Husk suggests a bit of brandy on the gums. Alastor suggests he consider if whiskey will burn on the scraps of his soul. Angel asks why they don't just slice the gum to force the tooth out. This is problematic for a number of reasons and Charlie assigns the demon a book on childcare before he is allowed another babysitting assignment.

Vaggie shrugs and says they will just have to deal with it. Kids teethe and it hurts like a motherfucker. Then they get better.

The little angel rests sporadically. Unless she is in her mother's arms, she refuses sleep. She wakes the moment she is placed in her bassinet. They revert back to an earlier time and Alastor paces the room for hours on end so she can sleep. He wonders if this is karma for arguing that Lenore did not have to remain in her bassinet at night. 

He refuses to sleep while his child is in pain.

The first night is fine. He's an old hat at that.

The second night is worse. He stumbles as he walks and uses his staff for the insulting purpose of actually supporting his steps. Shadow frets and annoys him with ridiculous suggestions. Lucifer aggravates him to no end with even stupider - more stupid? - ideas. 

The third night is a nightmare. He wonders if this is all a dream and he has, like Virgil, entered a lower level of Hell for a more devilish punishment of his many sins. He keeps an eye on the clock. Time is moving backwards and forwards, up and down. And Alastor frantically calls Lucifer to inform him that the Theory of Relativity is proven because Alastor can see on the clock it keeps moving fast and slow, back and forth. Of course, Lucifer does not understand the ramblings of a mad man and agrees to keep the peace.

That sends Alastor into a spiral because if Lucifer, architect of universes and Devil himself, says that time can go backward then it has to be true. When he starts babbling about whether the materials they've prepared for the hearing will disappear if time moves backward, Lucifer realizes he fucked up and spends the next two hours convincing Alastor that, no, time is not moving backwards (tough that Einstein made the cut for Heaven) and, hey, maybe Alastor should consider sleeping.

Alastor hugs Lenore - whimpering in sleep - closer and kicks Lucifer out of his room.

On the morning of the third day, Lucifer forces him to nap. 

The King dumps their screaming baby onto Charlie and Vaggie in the lobby and literally holds Alastor down on the bed until the Demon stops spitting and fighting. He could have sunk into his shadows and escaped. But he is so tired. The bed feels so nice beneath his aching shoulders and back. 

Rewards come from surrender. There are kisses and nips against his jaw. Skilled, hot hands massage the knots from his back. He purrs - if the pssssss of released static pressure can be called that - for the pure pleasure of the pain. 

He sinks into sleep at some point.

It feels much later in the day when he wakes. Hours later. Not evening. Closer to late afternoon, he thinks. 

There had been no decision to be made: he needed the rest. His mind is so much clearer for it. The pain in his back is a dull throb of healing muscles. There are smaller, more delicate pinches of pain when his yawns stretch the love bites Lucifer conveniently forgot to clean away. 

Lucifer, his angel, idiot that he is. A conundrum. An enigma. He gives Alastor whiplash when the intensity of his proclamations of devotion come on the heels of absentminded neglect (at best) and evasive secrets (at worst). Yet…Alastor had seen the palace. There had been renovations. Lucifer had been meeting with the sins (they sent Charlie and Lenore gifts by the cartful). Lucifer complained last night at the communal dinner that some Goetic ice princess had talked his ear off for an hour about his sister’s nightmare divorce.

The King of Hell, discussing matters of the realm as he sneaks whipped cream from his sundae into Lenore’s mouth via his pinky finger, playing footsie with Alastor, the strongest Overlord in Hell, sending a text to Angel and refusing to let Alastor see the contents out of playful spite, smiling at Charlie and Vaggie spoon-feeding each other ice cream, smiling at Alastor, expression growing darker, promise and Hellfire flickering in - 

That train of thought comes to a screeching halt as a blur of white nearly knocks him down the stars. The culprit is immediately spotted. Lucifer, wings spread, soaring through the lobby. 

“Wheeeeee!” He yells.

Honestly, one would think the Fallen Angel would be tired of flight after so many millenia. Alastor fails to see the appeal of purposefully putting one at a greater height than necessary. Though, he supposes height is the novel experience for the King on any occasion. 

Lucifer makes another loop around the lobby, passing by the grand staircase again. Alastor smiles, indulgent, and rolls his eyes. Then he sees Lucifer’s arms are cradled in front instead of spread wide like his wings and within them - 

“Lenore!” Alastor gasps, radio static gone completely silent. 

Then it explodes in a chaos of spikey and dissonant sounds.

The Radio Demon snarls, fury and fear rising up hot and quick in his chest, every instinct in his demonic body begging to be released. He holds back. Barely. Two thick tendrils are allowed to shoot from his back through the air, They swirl in increasingly small circles around his feathered target before snapping the trap. The eldritch itch in his hindbrain is desperate to crush its prey. But his better instincts, the ones calling forth the tendrils, keep the hold on the more severe side of firm.

They drag the Angel to face the Demon nose to non-existent nose.

“Tell me,” The Radio Demon snaps, his voice ragged with feedback, ichor bleeding into his veins, “tell me a single reason I should not gut you.”

“She likes to fly!” 

Wrong answer.

A shriek of feedback echoes off the high ceilings of the lobby and rains down on them all.

Lenore matches that pitch with her wail, discomforted by the noise and her mother’s expression, perhaps by the cold tendrils squeezing too tight in the aftershocks of his fear. That sound too bounces about the lobby. Even the Radio Demon’s ears twitch in pain. 

He loosens his hold just enough to take her into his arms before he tightens them again around the Angel to crush. Let the serpent have the breath squeezed from his lungs, have his heart stopped, like he had done to Alastor by risking his child. What the holy fuck had that reckless, birdbrained, inconsiderate-

Unfortunately, Lucifer seems mostly unaffected by Alastor’s attempt at homicide.

“She does! Don’t you, my duckling?” Lucifer wheezes out.

Lenore sobs louder, fat tears coursing down her pink cheeks, fists balled up against Alastor’s clavicle. 

“It also shut her up!” Vaggie calls out from the front desk, already massaging her temples, sourpuss face firmly back in place.

Alastor attempts to calm the screeching baby with a shushing roll of static. His hand - shaking from the cocktail of fury, fear, and relief - strokes her heaving back.

One of her fists, thrashing without aim, connects with the tendril emerging a vertebrae of his upper thoracic region of his spinal cord. Pain shoots from the point of contact downwards, through his hips and legs, immobilizing him. His only focus is to keep hold of Lenore and he falls to his knees and elbows, clutching her close to his chest.

Sound reaches him as if through water. His limbs are on fire. He feels Lucifer’s grip on his forearms and the healthy shake that rattles his teeth. The strings that hold him together materialize and pull tighter. His arms circle Lenore closer still, locking her in, pressing her wet cheeks against his thumping heart, dampening his shirt with her tears along with the cold sweat dripping off his face. 

His vision is a sliver of flames, blazing white hot, blue at the center, the barest tint of red at the edges. 

“Al! Come on, love, look at me!” 

The words slice through Alastor’s aching brain, too loud. He muffles them with a cushion of white noise and focuses on shoving air into his burning lungs. A cool wind meets his lips. He sucks in harder. The chill is numbing on his insides, lining him with ice and snuffing out the fire within.

He leans his forehead against the shoulder in front of him.

“There, there.” His savior whispers into his hair. 

Alastor shivers and shoves his frostbitten nose into the warm crook of Lucifer’s neck. 

“What the Hell was that?” Vaggie exclaims from somewhere to his right.

“Kid took him down in one hit!” Husker says at his left, unable to cover the hint of satisfaction in his voice. 

(Alastor makes a mental note to consider whether Husker’s soul would be of better use shredded on the floor of his Radio Tower. Or, at least, to give him extra shifts when writing up next week’s Front Desk schedule.)

“Fire.” Alastor croaks.

Lucifer settles a hand on his back, rubbing where his spinal cord still throbs, and murmurs sympathy.

“No.” Alastor pushes himself more stability to his knees. He wobbles. “Fire.”

“I’m sorry, babe, I should have made the bracelet. I got so distracted that day with the letter and-”

“FIRE.” Alastor’s disembodied voice booms around them, his lips locked tight together by glowing green strands, frustrated to eldritch proportions that the collection of idiots around him do not have two brain cells among them to rub together.

He adjusts Lenore to a more comfortable position between them and regathers his composure. She finds his fingers, forgetting her earlier grievances against him in the commotion, and grips one in her chubby fist. Her hand is hot as dying embers against his skin. He guides it to Lucifer’s own hand and forces him to feel. 

“Fire.” Lucifer breaths and then, louder, gleefully, “Holy fuck, fire! Alastor, fire!”

“Hellfire.” Alastor agrees, head bobbing despite the throbbing pain, tears springing to his eyes in desperate relief that he had not known he needed. “Our child has hellfire in her veins.”

Lucifer shifts the baby to face him. He rubs their foreheads together, smiling with indulgent amusement. “Of course she does! She’s Hellborn, and the Devil’s little angel to boot. She gets it from her daddy.”

The bait is there and Alastor is too choked up to take it. Instead, pain and pride trembling at the corners of his smile, He nuzzles his forehead in her golden hair.

A distinctly hard bump scratches between his brows.  

“Wha- oh!”  

He threads his fingers through her soft curls, feeling along her scalp, until - 

“Lucifer!” 

Blackened fingers knit through his own. They both circle the nubs poking through the baby’s skull. They are solid, stubby, and - judging by Lenore’s whimper - sore. 

“Are these-?”

“They are -”

“Just like…Just like…”

Alastor circles one of the budding antlers again, shushing the baby’s whimper with a release of static, “Yes, sire, she gets these from her maman.” Then he chokes on a sob and nearly falls again Lucifer, trembling, “Oh, heavens, I knew it! I knew it. These are the inheritance of the Radio Demon . Lucifer, my dear Lucifer, our child is undeniably demonic.”

They gather in the conference room to regroup, to strategize, and, with the help of a fountain of the finest champagne conjured by the King of Hell, a being both angelic and demonic in nature, they celebrate Hell’s littlest princess.

Some more than others.

Angel and Husker - somehow ending up under the conference table and somehow both ending up half-naked - are later woken by the haunting chime of the clock.

8 DAYS TO GO

Lucifer insists on a ‘date’. 

An absurd demand with countable hours left on the clock. 

He is persistent. His forked tongue spins silver to coax Alastor into agreeing to such nonsense. They compromise - and Alastor suspects he has been played like a fiddle even here - with dinner and drinks at the palace.

Alastor has nearly talked himself out of going by the time he feeds, bathes, dresses, and rocks Lenore to sleep. He blankets them in shadow as the gentlest means of travel between floors. Charlie and Vaggie are waiting - the former jittering with excitement, the latter rather neutral about it all - in that accursed pink monstrosity that identifies as a nursery.

The squeal that Charlie emits when he lays Lenore in the crib surely wakes every Hellhound in the Seven Rings. Unfortunately, it does not wake the baby and he has no excuse but to leave her.

“You’ll stay near her radio.” He commands.

Vaggie knocks on the top of said radio. “Yup.”

“You’ll contact Lucifer the moment she cries for a feeding. There is no need for her to go hungry for her father’s whims.” 

“Just make sure Lucifer pays attention to his phone.” Vaggie says with a bored affect.

“You’ll check on her at regular intervals. She’s never been in this room. If she wakes… Damn it all, we’re not going.” He informs their newest arrival.

Lucifer grabs his arm and pulls. “We are. Come on, handsome. Your carriage awaits.” He waves to Charlie and then waves a portal into existence.

Dinner is quiet.

A pleasant sort of quiet. The comfortable quiet that Alastor has come to associate with Lucifer. It might spark into a good-natured bit of snark. One might make a casual observation without expectation the other will answer. It is the sort of quiet that Alastor views as being distinct, and exclusive, to Lucifer.

They are in the master bedroom, a garishly decorated space, and, like uncultured slobs, sit criss-cross on a blanket on the floor. Finger foods cover every square inch they don’t occupy. 

Alastor expects a glass of wine or tumbler of whiskey to appear in his hand when the food gets cleared away. 

Instead, Lucifer leans in to lay siege on his lips. Lucifer captures his breath and invades his mouth with a skillful volley of his forked tongue. It is passionate but slow. Closer to their early morning kissing sessions that were restrained in the presence of their, usually, babbling and cooing child. Alastor attempts to add fire to the kiss. 

It stops. 

Golden eyes, intense with sparkling light, hold him still.

Lucifer takes over again. Nipping and licking and pressing in until Alastor’s lips throbbed and his veins thrummed. The King presses the demon onto the ground and laying above him, arms bend at the elbows on his chest. They are as aligned as they might be. Lucifer’s eyelashes tickle the thin skin by Alastor’s eyes. Their hearts pound against each other, out of sync, masterminding a rhythm never heard before.

Snap

They land on the bed. It is soft down (duck, if the bedding is as on brand as the rest of the room is) and they sink down, down, down together. 

Lithe fingers flick open the buttons of his shirt. 

A sharp intake of breath.

“Al.” 

Ah, yes. Lucifer had yet to have him shirtless.

“A scar. We all have them, don’t we darling? A little scar, that’s all.”

A burnt finger, rough and gentle, traces the sickle shaped scar. Silvery gold. Edged in black where the holy light cauterized his skin. An unfortunate reminder of his own hubris. But he is currently in bed with the Sin of Pride so actually rather appropriate. 

“That bastard.” Lucifer hisses under his breath. “I should have killed him with my bare hands.”

“Hmm, shoulda, woulda, coulda.” Alastor wiggles beneath him. A blatant attempt to redirect Lucifer to the task at hand. The rare mood has come upon him. The one that wants with genuine interest, if not desire. Unless the interest is desire. Anyway, Alastor is interested in continuing with proceedings thus far and that damned twice dead buzzard is getting in the way from beyond the grave.

“Are you okay?” Lucifer takes Alastor’s head in his hands. Those golden eyes burn into Alastor’s, searching within for any damage nearly two years on. “It doesn’t hurt you?”

Alastor threads his fingers through Lucifer’s and draws them in for a series of kisses across the knuckles. “No. Now, little fool, do you wish to have the First Man so present in our bed tonight?”

The answer to that is obvious. 

His angel moves down his body with reverent devotion. Alastor gasps when he feels a hand palm his clothed groin. He is soft. His nether regions are more tentative in their interest. Worry flits across his brain and then away.

This is Lucifer. His Lucifer. He refuses to feel shame in this bed. 

Lucifer seems delighted by progress thus far. He peels off Alastor’s trousers with deliberate jerky movements. It causes the bed to creak and bounce beneath them. 

The wretch giggles. 

Alastor had a very snappy wittism on his tongue but it gets tied when Lucifer mouths him through the thin fabric of his undershorts.

He breathes.

This is familiar territory. They’ve done this. Not too long ago, even. 

The angelic mouth is as much bliss as he recalls. Silky and wet. His cock hardens through his angel’s careful ministrations until he can feel the inferno of hellfire in Lucifer’s core in waves against the sensitive tip.

He hooks a thigh over Lucifer’s shoulders.

His claws grip and release silken sheets repeatedly. One hand reaches down to grip and press on golden locks. He stokes Lucifer’s hollowed cheeks where he can reach.

Lucifer swallows. Hard.

Alastor moans. It is a guttural, noisy sound. That crescendos into a squeak as a single oiled finger penetrates him and strokes him within. Then the digit thrusts. Well, more accurately, drags in and out. 

It is a mess of sensations. Alastor keeps his eyes closed so he can focus on them. He collects and sorts them. He feels them building and lets his collection rise higher and higher.

“Ahhh!”

Stars fall behind his eyelids. Lucifer presses against that sweet spot within again. Alastor bleats. And again. Press. Bleat.

Utterly without dignity or shame, Alastor doesn’t care that he sounds precisely like a doe in heat. He is discovering here. He will forever be discovering with Lucifer. The feelings, the touches, the sensations, the everything the King of Hell offers and is, which is more than the fool might realize he has. Alastor will take it. He will take it all and beg for more. Lucifer would like that, to hear Alastor beg for more…

He will. 

He will get on his knees and beg so long as Lucifer just. keeps. going. 

“My lovely.” Bleat. “You sing” Bleat. “so pretty” Bleat. “for me.” Bleat. “My Alastor” Bleat. “my star” Bleat. “my song.” Bleeeeeat.

Lucifer bends down again to take the leaking cock into his sinful mouth. He continues his finger magic. He uses a hand to stroke the fur on the flat plain of Alastor’s belly. There should be a warning, it is only polite to warn the generous, talented, beautiful angel but Alastor is so close and can’t stop panting and every sound from his lips is that dreadful bleating and he wants - he needs - he is going to….

“Al?”

“Wha was tha?” The demon slurs, losing a consonant or two along the way.

Lucifer scoots up the bed so they are at eye level. He swipes back Alastor’s bangs and ruffles them when they immediately bounce back to center. His finger traces random shapes against Alastor’s hot skin.

“Oh, that?” Lucifer asks causally. “Nothing much. Just a little move I call ‘evening the score.’ Pow!” 

He punches his fist in the air. 

Alastor is, admittedly, left speechless once more.

Then, recovering, lets his grin grow wicked and pushes the King, his fool, his angel, onto his back.

“There is time left on the clock, my dear.”

---

Alastor’s ear flicks in response to a puff of air breeches the tufts of hair at its base. It disturbs him enough to draw him from his dreams. His sleepy brain takes a moment to warm up. For an unsettling moment, he has no idea where he is. The room around him is gaudy elegance and the hellish bloody light of Hell’s deep night spills through an open balcony door. His brow creases in confusion until he feels the disturbance strike his ear again.

Lucifer, tucked up in a ball, almost entirely on the island of pillows, nuzzles his face further into the nest he has made of Alastor’s hair. 

“Pest.” Alastor hisses, smiling softly, enjoying the contrast of the sound and his expression. 

He takes the time to take stock of the room. It is, appallingly, so Lucifer. Circus themed decor dominates the room. Paintings of carousel horses. Fabric bunched up and shaped into a classic Big Top tent above the bed in place of a canopy. Circus glass lampshades. 

This will all need to go.

A more natural take on elegance is in order. A few cattails in the corner to set the mood. The weeping of a willow tree for their bed curtains. Lanterns on the bedside. Perhaps he can convince Lucifer that a bayou is in order.

The desk is covered in papers, some crumpled, others stacked in alternating directions like a chaotic game of Jenga. Alastor rolls his eyes. There are hundreds of rooms in this accursed palace and Lucifer has doubled his private chamber as an office. That will need to be changed as well. Business and pleasure - Alastor can feel the heat in his cheeks at the thought - should rarely mix. 

A glint of gold catches his eye before it scans away. It is there though, partially hidden behind a stack of papers, visibly through an open door of the desk’s upper level shelf. 

Alastor carefully peels away from his angel and the pillows.

Softly, slowly, nearly soundlessly, his hooves carry him across the carpeted floor. He sorts and relocates the leaning tower of papers into a box with a wave of his hand. The door of the shelf swings open once that hindrance is removed.

A crown gleams back at him.

It is crafted of thick, burnished gold, incredibly detailed along the base with flowers and snakes and pentagrams. Seven spokes jut up in chunky declarations of the Sins of the same number with the elaborate sigils. 

“Alastor?” Lucifer grumbles sleepily from the bed.

The crown is heavy when he picks it up.

“Alastor!” More alert, alarmed and borderline…angry.

“What a pretty piece.” Alastor comments. He rotates the crown to observe it at all angles. It is unnaturally warm on his skin. He looks back at the bed. Lucifer is on his knees with his hands clenched in the blanket pooled across his lap. The marks from that evening’s program are shadows on porcelain skin. He looks like he is on the edge of a knife, sitting still as a statue, a prey animal waiting for the hunter to strike.

A suspicious reaction from Hell’s apex predator. Laughable, really. Alastor is no physical threat. They’ve fought that battle. So, by process of elimination, then the fear lay in the soft underbelly of Lucifer’s emotions.

“A gift, no doubt. The King of Hell would not change his stripes at this late date. For me? No? Bit premature there. So…who else needs a crown and why does she need one now?” 

Lucifer, shaking, nearly trapping his legs in the sheets, tumbles down the bed and onto his feet. 

“Give it here.” He orders in a strangled whisper.

“Then there’s this one.” Alastor picks up the second headpiece that had been nestled within the fist.. Significantly smaller, fitting neatly in the span of Alastor’s palm, the little circlet is constructed of a sliver of black metal and lined with rubies. Alastor rubs a thumb over the largest ruby and a hiss emits where it burns his flesh. “Ahh, an age appropriate toy for a baby!”

“It is not a toy. Give it here now, Al.”

Alastor compares the two. 

“A diadem. A crown. Powerfully crafted…is that a touch of hellfire burning in these jewels?”

Lucifer, naked, beautifully dangerous in spite of that, hand outstretched, repeats in the hell-soaked voice of the Devil: “Give it here now .”

The beautiful features of God’s favorite little angel have distorted into the Devil. His horns split through his porcelain forehead in bloody, flesh tearing, deliberate mutilation. The pleasant curve of his smile now splits his face in half in a snarl.

“As my king commands.” Alastor snaps, ears pressing back to his head. Damned prey instincts. He holds out the crown with a dramatic flourish, asking, “why would a Princess of Hell need such a grand crown at all? Forgive my democratic American roots, but it had been my understanding a diadem is more appropriate.”

The Devil glares at him as he accepts the proffered headpieces. The vanish in a glittering puff of smoke. “They’re not something you need to worry about. Just a gift, as you say, when the time comes.” The words are heavy as lead. Practically ordering that Alastor accept without further ado.

“When precisely is that, Lucifer, first and last of his name, reigning King of Hell since the Fall of Mankind? For what possible reason should you have prepared a crown of state for Charlotte, after all this time? It is your intention to step down?”

“No. Hopefully, she won’t need to see that for a long while. Just in case…all will be ready.”

“Part of your palace project.” Alastor guesses. He keeps his tone light and level. His crimson eyes betray the rapid fire of his thoughts and the heat of his fury as the pieces click into place. Another pop pop pop of Eureka! moments.

The meeting with the Overlord Council representatives.

The Sins’ presence in the palace.

Renovations of the palace…not renovations. 

Fortifications.

Little comments here and there. Complaints about Goetic princes and dukes that Alastor had not cared to listen to. The paperwork, Lucifer’s hated responsibility, toppling over on his desk. His affection. Those sad looks. The work that had never seemed to bother Lucifer while he was at the hotel, that had never been pressing…

“I’m working so hard.” “I’m trying to protect her.” “There is so much to do.”

In so little time.

“No…” Alastor gasps, frequency sharp and quick as a bow ripping across violin strings.

“Come back to bed, darling.” Lucifer pleads softly. The tips of his horns have receded and the hellfire crimson is dimmed. No longer the Devil, too guilt-stricken to be an angel, Lucifer risks being reduced to a pathetic, lying, flawed man.

“A crown for a queen.” 

Static electricity lights under Alastor’s hooves against the carpet as he steps around Lucifer. A crimson robe drapes around his naked form at a snap of his finger. Flames licks at his fingertips from the friction, neon green and black. He flicks them off and the lamp turns on, the light green. Then it turns off at an annoyed hiss of air through his teeth. Then on and off again at his tails angry swishing under the satin bathrobe.

“A precaution.” Lucifer whispers hoarsely.

“What are you planning, Lucifer?” Alastor asks. He can see the King’s silhouette in the slits of his vision, pupils shrunk to radio dials. The air crackles with energy, disturbing the very air waves as his radio clicks through channels, searching for answers. 

“She’ll stay at home. Where she belongs. She’ll grow up in Hell, with you, safe as she can be as a princess.”

But Lucifer does not intend to be there.

“What have you done?” Alastor hisses.

“My royal duty. For once.” Lucifer straightens his back. “I am preparing for Hell’s future. I am doing my duty as a father, ensuring they are protected and supported after I’m gone. I am doing my duty by you, fulfilling my vow to you. What’s done is done.”

“Undo it!” 

Lucifer sighs. He waves a crimson robe onto his own nakedness. Cautious, he holds out his hand to Alastor.

A tendrils of shadow slaps it away.

“It’s a precaution, Al.” Lucifer assures him. “If the decision isn't fair, if they try… anything. I’ll make my move. Maybe I’ll never need to. Maybe all will go well. Maybe I’m overreacting. No harm done then.”

“Harm…harm done...Fuck’s sake, you fool! You’ve plotted your own suicide! All this time…while I…while you- YOU - Ha. Ha! Ha! Hahahahahahahahaha! ” Alastor breaks off in high pitched laughter. He holds up a hand, begging for a moment to compose himself. Then he uses it to grip his throat. 

He can’t stop.

It echoes around him. Cackles, high pitched and low, distorted wails of manic laughter and sobs filtered through thick radio static and shadow. He slaps a hand on the desk to keep himself upright. 

The mania spirals out of control. His radio spins the dial. A record hooks on it like a horse shoe round a stake. The needle is all wrong. It scratches and screeches and laughs and laughs and laughs and-

His chest aches as he tries to hold his breath.

TWANG!

One rib snaps.

TWANG!

Another one cracks.

His belly is sick with laughter. He coughs, giggling, bile rising in his throat. He gags and a wet mass of bloody tissue lands with a plop on the floor. Alastor follows, landing on his knees.

Lucifer lands in front of him. “Al, look at me. Stop. Just stop.” He takes Alastor’s head in his hands.

The Radio Demon’s skull tip-tops about, hitting hard on the left shoulder and then swinging over to bash against his right. Lucifer’s efforts are pitiful to stop it. He tries to apply a bit of pressure and vertebrae pop-pop-pop! apart. The Radio Demon’s head whips around in a circle without the restrictions of his spine.

“Stop!”

George W. Johnson, his full belly laugh warped after nearly two hundred years post-recording, answers where Alastor cannot.

🎶And then I laughed🎶

The Radio Demon cackles. 

Hahahahaha!

🎶I could not help from laughin'🎶

The Radio Demon hollers.

Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!haaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

🎶And then I laughed!🎶

The Radio Demon screams.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHH!

The world goes dark.  The echoes fade away. For a terrifying moment…no, not shadows. Not again. She’s not here. Just breathing surrounds him. Puffs. Shushing. His laughter gets caught within the feathers surrounding him. It is suffocated into oblivion. Darling. My love. My lovely. Listen. Shhh, my darling love, shhhh, hush now, my song. Breathe for me. In. One, two, three. Good. So strong. Out. One, two, three, four, five, six. There. Again. In. One, two, three. Brilliant. Out. One, two, three, four, five, six. So good for me, so lovely. There you are.

Alastor opens his sticky eyes. There he is, Lucifer, wiping away the viscous tears and bloody ichor from the demon’s face. Those porcelain cheeks are smeared with it too. It stays, ignored, as his angel shivers against him, clinging to him like he had been the one losing his grip on reality.

“Your love.” Alastor whispers hoarsely.

“My love.” Lucifer whispers back.

“How could you? ” It is an accusation carried by his gasping breath, thin and bitter.

The King pulls away. His stained face is further darkened by shadows. The golden glow of his eyes provide further contrast. He frowns, small, and his brow knits, also small. Not sharp in anger, as Alastor as seen him display so many times, but genuine confusion. He speaks, voice low and, yes, small. 

“I…how could I love you? You’re…how could you doubt my love, when you’re you. Shadows to my Hellfire, darkness to my light, so lovely and terrible, a siren song drawing me to your depths, dragging me down.”

The Tempter.

The Serpent in the Garden.

The Devil.

“Words are cheap.” The Demon, a dealmaker plump with power from the clever use of words, chokes out. 

“I’d give you a crown, my darling king, if I was truly fool enough to think you’d take it.” The King offers blithely. “I’d give you a sky of stars. You can have Pentagram City on a platter. Want my soul? Wo-”

NO!

The word attacks them from outside the protection of Lucifer’s wings, highly distorted, as Alastor deliberately jams his radio with a pulse of demonic force. 

“Never! You hear me? Never be so idiotic!” Alastor’s throat burns. 

He coughs and another clump of tissue comes up. 

A gentleman even in a breakdown, he takes the soiled handkerchief from Lucifer’s fist, spits into the folds and banishes the lot into the void.

“I know. I'm sorry. I am, my lovely, darling king of my heart, my stars, my song.” The King rambles. The even volume and rich velvet of his angelic pipes soothes Alastor frayed sanity and nerves. Lucifer smooths back wet, red bangs from the Demon’s sweaty brow to bestow a kiss. It burns when his dark lips meet bare skin. Branding the Demon with the heat of his affection.

His esophagus is too torn to continue demanding Lucifer answer the question he had intended to ask. Tomorrow the moment will be gone. There will be too much to do. Too many decisions to be made. The answer does not matter, not really. Not now, as it were. 

But then Lucifer answers it anyway and Alastor falls apart again.

“Your heart will heal, my song, and you will sing stronger for having known love, if this is all the time we are given. You deserve to be loved. You are so beautiful when you let me love you. Nearly as beautiful as when you show me your violence. My darling, my insanity. Alastor.”

They sit for a long time, crouched on the floor, blood red silk pooling around them. Angelic wings provide no ventilation and they wink out of existence when the air grows damp. They shiver when the night chills their sweaty bodies. Instead of returning to the bed, they cling together. Alastor feels the Hellfire in Lucifer’s heart. Tired, mind sluggish and indulgent, he thinks that it burns for him.

If there is mercy, if there is a higher power minding the welfare of the wretched and pitiful, it will burn him to ashes before he is forced to watch his temporary perfect world go up in smoke.

1 DAY TO GO

The staff and the residents dine at one long table the night before the hearing. Charlie presides, at the insistence of all, though she constantly is up and bouncing about to join a conversation down the table or grab refills on drinks or bus away dirty dishes. Vaggie acts as her personal shadow. Up and down, left and right, eye rolling as her girlfriend tries to make everyone happy.

Alastor guesses the poor girl is working off a spot of nervous energy. 

He himself is so afflicted. Except he is paralyzed with it. The evening before battle had once left him manic with excitement. He had been giddy to face his opponent and shred their souls for the airwaves. Not tonight. It feels as if his own soul is aching with the pressure of the unknown and the hopelessly inevitable.

At his left, Lucifer is equally quiet. He smiles in all the proper spots of Angel’s sordid stories. He compliments the residents as they share their accomplishments, and sidesteps questions on whether Heaven will soon consider Charlie’s proposed streamlined redemption process. Some are new sinners and it has been nearly two years since the last extermination. They assume Heaven will be kind, understanding, open, once this messy custody nonsense is finished.

The other sinners must not have the heart to set them straight.

Lucifer’s pinky finger nudges up Alastor’s own to burrow underneath. Alastor tolerates the manipulation and soon they are linked like children in the schoolyard promising forever. A string of light snakes it way around Alastor’s index finger to encircle his wrist. The warm caress of power searches for a pulse and presses against it. A snippet of shadow slips out from his claws and leaps backwards to attack the wristlet of light.

The light circles the shadow. The shadow chases the light. They snip and slap at one another in what one observer might call flirtation and another might call violence. Given their sources, both viewpoints are probably correct.

A chubby little hand reaches out to grab.

Lucifer catches the shadow and light with his free left hand and the powers turn into a solid black and golden swirled sphere. He rolls it over lightly down the table. Of course, the baby misses the ball entirely when she flails forward. Calamity is prevented only by Alastor’s reflexive palm splayed across her chest to hold her steady.

Charlie attempts to bat the ball back. It bounces and lands in the mountain of potato salad. White gunk rises from the bowl in a tidal wave. Lucifer waves his hand to stop the foodborne natural disaster. It only proves chaos cannot be stopped as much as redirected in the Hazbin Hotel as the bolt of power fails to block the mangled tubers, instead, launches a plate of pigs in a blanket at their resident Porn Star.

Ah, the athletic prowess of the Morningstars. 

Angel Dust blinks, dripping in thick, vicious, white slop with breaded odes to phallic foodstuff sticking out of each facial orifice, before he smirks around the generous mouthful. He sucks in the blanketed porcine and says, “an’ on my day off too!”

The residents around him laugh. Angel has that way with people. He is so lovable. Even Alastor had been dragged - clawing at the floor and walls all the way - into the demon’s orbit. With luck, and a heavy reliance on Vaggie’s coaching on what language is not appropriate in Heaven, Angel Dust will catch the heart of the Seraphim in his web. 

If angels have hearts.

Lucifer tickles Lenore under the chin and her giggle so closely mimics the quacking of a duck Alastor wonders if they really should limit that exposure. Far be it from the deer demon with antlers in all of his decorating to judge a personal style, but, honestly, ducks. 

** clink** **clink** **clink** **clink** **clink**

“Can I have your attention for a sec?” Charlie asks, too timid to have effect.

The volume of conversation and scrap of silverware on plateware does not lower a notch.

** clink!** **clink!** **clink!** **clink!** **clink!**

“Hi! Friends! Just a second of your time!” 

** CLUNK!** **CLUNK!** **CLUNK!** **CLUNK!** **CLUNK!**  

KA-BOOM!

“YO SHUT UP FOR THE PRINCESS!” Cherri Bomb shouts as she holds up a second of her namesake explosive in her palm.

Charlie puts her glass back on the table.

“Thank you, Cherri!” She says. “I actually want to thank you all for all your hard work these last couple months, and for your hard work before that, for your redemption!, but, ahh, this really means a lot to me.” Her lip wobbles and she breathes in deep before continuing. “Marie Lenore came into our lives unexpectedly.”

“An understatement.” Alastor mutters under his breath, leaning closer to Lucifer. 

“Wow, that was pretty crazy! One day and surprise!: a new check-in at the Front Desk!”

“You are dedicated to that desk.” Lucifer whispers.

“I made a lot of mistakes then. We all did. We all make mistakes and we learn from them. Those who love us will give us the chance to make those mistakes and forgive us anyway. Alastor gave me another chance. I didn’t deserve one and he gave me another chance. Then my dad came back, and Alastor gave him another chance.”

Alastor snickers, hiding the lower half of his face behind the baby’s head. “You really did not deserve one.”

Lucifer nudges him in the side with an elbow. “Sure didn't!” He agrees.

“Now…now I have my dad back, and my little sister here, and Alastor, who is like my second dad-”

“Haha, second place.” Lucifer smirks.

“- and a perfect maman to Lenore. This all wouldn’t be possible without all of you. Helping keep this place running, being patient with us, trusting us, protecting my sister and the hotel during that horrible challenge - just so much you do makes this work. We are all family, blood or not, and we will look out for each other no matter what happens tomorrow. I promise: I will be there for all of you, and I will fight for your right to be redeemed. You deserve it.” She picks up her glass and raises it high.

The table does the same.

“Until then,” she raises it higher. Light catches in the crystal and projects a thousand beams of rainbows across the walls. “Let’s give them a Hell of a fight!”

“To kicking Heaven’s ass!” Cherri screeches, pounding down her drink.

“To justice!” Vaggie shouts quickly.

The room choruses the cheer, drinking deeply, laughing loudly, energy infectious.

“To Lenore.” Lucifer says in a whisper meant only for them two. 

Alastor clinks their glasses together. “To us. All of us." He amends quietly. He closes his eyes and he can nearly see the countdown clock in his mind’s eye. He can already hear the chime and tick that will sound at midnight. He can see the manifestation of their time running out.

0 DAYS TO GO

Notes:

The drama keeps coming and it don't start coming.

All the pieces are there now to get the answer on how baby came to be. I tried to sprinkle them throughout the earlier chapters and I would jump with excitement when I would see a comment that caught one of the hints.

One more chapter! One more chapter!

You might think, dear author, if the baby is, at least partly, demonic isn't that like an automatic win for them since Heaven just wants her because she's an angel? Oh, sweet summer child. That's not how the court system works. That's not how Heaven works. You saw Episode 6. You saw that promo pics of snake boy in chains.

But it's also not what you think OKAY THANKS SEE YOU LATER.