The Uncomfortable Truth

by RemiDaisy

Summary:

What happens when Hell's King and the Radio Demon are magically cursed to be... nice to each other? Lucifer and Alastor are about to find out. Forced proximity, excruciating politeness, and unexpected feelings ensue.

Notes:

Quick shout-out! The initial inspiration for this story came from the hilarious one-shot "And how does that make you feel?" by Godlizza. Seriously, if you haven't read it, you absolutely should – go check it out!

Chapter 1: Hellfire and Foaming Cats

The evening hummed with its usual brand of chaotic energy at the Hazbin Hotel. Well, mostly usual. Lucifer Morningstar now resided in the gleaming, apple-themed tower he’d established on the side of the Hotel, opposite Alastor's radio tower, his presence adding a new, slightly awkward layer of regal authority to the general mayhem.

Down in the main lobby, Charlie was radiating determined optimism, clipboard in hand. Her current project: integrating their newest resident, the cyclops punk demon Cherri Bomb, into the hotel’s unique brand of rehabilitative trust exercises.

"Okay, Cherri, remember! Deep breaths! We're all here to support you!" Charlie chirped, standing ready with Angel Dust (who looked far too amused by the whole thing) to catch the surprisingly hesitant bomber.

Cherri, perched precariously on the small raised stage, leaned over the edge, pointing menacingly at Angel Dust. "Angie!" she snarled, her voice rough. "You drop me, and I'll personally shove one of my specials so far up your fluffy ass, you'll be tasting gunpowder for a month! Got it?" Not waiting for an answer, she gave a sharp, dangerous grin and launched herself backward, landing with a solid thump into Charlie and Angel’s arms.

"See! You did it!" Charlie beamed, helping her up.

Lucifer, watching from a plush armchair he’d commandeered near the fireplace, let out a soft, proud chuckle. His daughter, trying so hard, bless her heart. It almost made residing in this chaotic flophouse bearable. Almost.

"Dad! Your turn!" Charlie called, waving him over. "Show Cherri how it’s done! Trust fall!"

Lucifer blinked, caught off guard. "Oh! Well, I..."

A slow, deliberate drawl cut through the air from the direction of the bar. "Oh, I wouldn't fret excessively if your timing isn't quite perfect in catching him, my dear," Alastor drawled, swirling his glass of amber liquid – whiskey, neat, undoubtedly. His usual wide grin stretched, somehow sharper, more predatory. He took a delicate sip before continuing, his voice laced with mockingly sweet concern, static crackling faintly around the edges. "The repercussions of this particular impact would surely seem... rather trivial compared to the landing he experienced after his more... precipitous descent from grace, wouldn't you say?"

The implication hung heavy and toxic in the air.

Charlie’s face went bone white. "Alastor, no—"

But it was too late. The shift in Lucifer was instantaneous. The fond, paternal pride vanished, replaced by incandescent rage. His eyes flared a demonic red, horns sprouted from his forehead, a small flame ignited between them, hovering just atop his hat, and the air crackled with raw power. He rose from the chair, no longer the slightly goofy, duck-loving dad, but the Fallen Angel, King of Hell, ready to personally deliver a fresh damnation upon the smug Radio Demon.

"Why you son of a—!" Lucifer roared, lunging forward, hellfire already starting to lick at his fingertips.

Alastor merely chuckled, his grin widening with perverse delight. He'd hit the nerve exactly as intended. Entertainment!

"DAD! ALASTOR! STOP IT!" Charlie shrieked, throwing herself between them with the practiced air of someone who’d done this far too many times.

The explosion of power wasn't directed, but in the chaotic surge as Lucifer lunged and Alastor sidestepped with infuriating grace, Lucifer's uncontrolled hellfire slammed into the heavy wooden bar counter, splintering the surface and igniting both it and the nearest unoccupied stool in demonic fire.

"FIRE!" Angel Dust yelped, abandoning his posturing to point dramatically towards the now-burning bar.

Husk, annoyed and half-drunk, made things worse by pouring his own drink onto the burgeoning flames. Predictably, this only made them flare higher and ignited a nearby bottle of cheap hooch with a whoosh, causing the grumpy bartender to recoil.

"Oh, filth! Fire filth! Must clean!" Almost before Husk could react to the secondary flare-up, Niffty zipped past faster than seemed possible, dragging her trusty mopping bucket behind her. Without hesitation, she sloshed the murky contents – a pungent mix of water and ammonia – onto the base of the flaming stool, causing a brief sizzle and releasing eye-watering fumes into the already chaotic air.

Husk, now recoiling from both the flared hooch and the sudden chemical stench, finally growled, wiping his face. "Damn it, Niff— GAH!"

Before he could finish, Cherri Bomb slid into view like an action hero, brandishing a large, red fire extinguisher she'd presumably liberated from a wall mount somewhere. "Stand back, losers! Your girl Cherri's got this!" she yelled, fumbling slightly with the nozzle before unleashing a massive cloud of white foam directly towards the flames... and the unfortunate Husk standing right beside them.

The grumpy cat demon disappeared in a sudden billow of extinguisher retardant, emerging seconds later sputtering, dripping, and absolutely coated head-to-toe in sticky white foam, looking even more murderous than usual. Angel, who had initially tried swatting the flames with a decorative pillow to no effect, now frantically swatted at stray foam blobs landing near him with it. Vaggie appeared, spear in hand, now looking utterly bewildered by the escalating disaster zone the bar had become, fumes stinging her eye.

While Charlie physically strained to keep her furious father from throttling the still-grinning Radio Demon —"He started it, Charlie! You heard him!"— the background had dissolved into pure slapstick.

It was just another Tuesday night at the Hazbin Hotel. And Charlie was already so tired.

The chaos slowly subsided, leaving behind a tableau of minor destruction and major irritation. Husk stood stiffly, dripping foam and radiating pure hatred. Niffty, seemingly satisfied with her ammonia assault on the “fire filth,” was already trying to scrub foam stains off the floor. Angel Dust was picking white blobs off his boa, while Vaggie pinched the bridge of her nose, her visible eye still watering from the fumes that lingered in the air, making several demons cough wetly.

But it was Charlie’s face that made Lucifer’s lingering rage finally falter. She stood frozen amidst the wreckage, her usual bright eyes wide with utter horror as she stared at the charred, splintered remains of the bar, the foam-covered cat demon, and the general state of her beloved hotel lobby. Her shoulders slumped, the weight of the constant chaos pressing down on her.

Lucifer cleared his throat, the sound rough. His demonic features softened slightly, replaced by a wave of guilt. “Hey,” he began, his voice softer now, stepping towards her. “Don’t you worry, Char Char.”

He straightened up, raising his apple-topped cane, a faint golden light beginning to gather around the head. “It’s okay. Daddy will fix it, make it good as new, maybe even better—”

SNAP.

Before Lucifer could even fully channel his power, a wave of crackling green and black energy erupted from Alastor’s direction, sharp static filling the air for a fraction of a second. Shadows writhed and coalesced around the ruined bar area like eager tendrils. In less time than it took to blink, the charred wood, the broken stool, the lingering foam, and even the acrid smell of ammonia vanished. In their place stood… a bar counter. A perfectly functional, clean bar counter.

It was the exact same cheap, plain, hideously functional wooden counter Alastor had conjured during the hotel’s initial renovations. The very one Lucifer had taken personal offense to and insisted on replacing with something far more opulent.

Alastor’s grin was wider than ever, sharp and utterly self-satisfied. He gestured towards his handiwork with a dramatic flourish of his microphone cane. “There! Good as new!” he announced cheerily, his voice dripping with false helpfulness and barely concealed mockery aimed squarely at the King of Hell. “No need to trouble yourself, Your Majesty. Already handled! Quick and efficient, wouldn’t you agree?”

His nostrils flared, voice dropping into a snarl as he abandoned any pretense of regal calm. He jabbed his finger towards Alastor again, his whole frame trembling with fury. "Don't think I don't see exactly what you're doing, you grinning jackass! You did this on purpose, you tacky piece of shit! Just to annoy me!"

Alastor's grin didn't falter, only widened, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. The air crackled faintly with static as he opened his mouth, likely to deliver a cutting retort dripping with condescension—

"STOP IT!"

Charlie suddenly stepped forward, planting herself firmly between the two furious demons, though she had to crane her neck to look up at them both. Tears of pure frustration and exhaustion welled in her eyes, threatening to spill. Her voice trembled but carried surprising volume over the lingering fumes and tension.

"Both of you! Just... stop!" she pleaded, hands clenched into fists at her sides. The chaos, the fighting, the fire – it was all too much. "Why is it always like this?! Why can't you..." she took a shaky breath, "why can't you just say a few nice things?! Honestly! Just a few positive things you actually think about each other! Is that SO impossible?! ...And learn to get along?!"

As her desperate final plea hung in the air, amplified by her raw emotion and the unique blend of angelic hope and demonic power simmering within her, something shifted. Charlie squeezed her eyes shut, wishing with every fiber of her being for just one second of peace, kind words, and maybe, just maybe, a flicker of genuine connection between the two most powerful influences in her life.

WHAMP!

A sudden, blinding flash of pure golden light erupted outwards from Charlie, engulfing both Lucifer and Alastor in its warm, unexpectedly potent energy. It wasn't an attack, but it felt absolute, washing over them for a disorienting split second before vanishing as quickly as it appeared. It left behind a faint, shimmering afterimage in the air, the distant chime of bells, and a strange, tingling silence.

Lucifer stumbled back a step, blinking rapidly, momentarily stunned by the light and the sheer emotional force of his daughter's outburst. The rage was momentarily washed away by... something else. Alastor froze mid-chuckle, his grin faltering – almost imperceptibly, but definitely faltering – for the barest microsecond. His head tilted slightly, ears twitching, as if analyzing an unexpected frequency shift or a ripple in the fabric of Hell itself. Even Husk, still dripping foam, looked momentarily confused beyond his usual grumpiness.

Charlie opened her eyes, surprised by the sudden quiet and the lingering golden motes dancing in the air. She sniffled, unaware of precisely what cosmic wires her desperate plea had just tripped.

The silence stretched, thick and unnatural in the Hazbin Hotel lobby. Lucifer shot a final, unreadable glare towards Alastor – who met it with an equally inscrutable, though slightly narrowed, gaze – before turning sharply on his heel. Without another word, pulling his coat tighter around himself as if suddenly feeling a chill that had nothing to do with temperature, he stalked towards the elevator that presumably led up to his private tower. His footsteps echoed with stiff, royal indignation.

Alastor lingered just a fraction of a second longer. His smile smoothed back into its default wide, unreadable shape, though the faint twitch in his ear hadn't entirely vanished. With a barely perceptible, almost mocking half-bow towards Charlie, he seemed to dissolve at the edges, melting into a patch of convenient shadow near the wall and vanishing completely.

It was Husk who finally broke the quiet, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that could curdle milk. He made a pathetic, futile attempt to wipe some of the sticky white foam from his face fur with a paw, only succeeding in smearing it further across his cheek.

"Fucking fantastic," he growled, his yellow eyes scanning the scene – the weirdly out-of-place new bar, the lingering golden dust motes, his own ridiculous, foam-covered state. He shook his head, foam splattering slightly. "I'm done with this shit for tonight."

Before turning to leave, he reached a dripping, foamy paw over Alastor's newly-conjured (and decidedly shoddy) bar counter, snagged an unopened bottle of cheap booze and clutched it tightly. True to his word, he turned, dripping foam and clutching his prize, and stomped pointedly away from the bar and out of the main lobby area. The wet, sticky slap of his foamy paws on the floor echoed in the suddenly much quieter room, leaving the others standing there, perplexed about what exactly had just happened.

Notes:

Kudos and comments are always appreciated.

Chapter 2: Curses and Omelettes

The pre-dawn gloom of Hell filtered weakly through the tall kitchen windows of the Hazbin Hotel. It wasn’t exactly bright, but it was the closest thing to morning the establishment ever saw. Lucifer Morningstar, still feeling the sting of the previous night’s confrontation – both with Alastor and, more importantly, with his daughter’s palpable disappointment – exited his private elevator, the soft ding echoing slightly in the relative quiet.

He straightened his pristine white coat, adjusting the cuffs. Pancakes. That was the plan. A peace offering for Charlie. A simple, sweet gesture to show he regretted losing his temper, regretted letting that insufferable radio host get under his skin again, and regretted contributing to the chaos that had so clearly upset her. He wasn’t always the best with words when pride was involved, but pancakes? Pancakes felt like a safe bet. Who could stay truly mad when presented with a fluffy stack of syrup-drenched goodness? He envisioned her smile, that bright, hopeful beam, and felt a renewed determination.

He pushed open the swinging door to the main kitchen, a hopeful, slightly sheepish expression arranging itself on his face, ready to claim the domain of the griddle for his apology mission.

And stopped dead in the doorway.

The kitchen was already occupied. Standing at the large, industrial-sized stove, humming a jaunty, slightly staticky jazzy tune, was Alastor. The Radio Demon himself, apron tied neatly—almost disturbingly so—over his usual sharp red attire, was deftly maneuvering what looked like a perfectly executed French omelette in a cast iron skillet with infuriating expertise. The air, instead of holding the faint promise of sweet batter, carried the distinct, savory aroma of sizzling bacon, rich coffee, perhaps a hint of chicory, and delicate herbs.

Alastor finally pivoted from the stove, the omelette now presumably resting on the plate. His signature wide, toothy grin was firmly in place, eyes crinkling at the corners with that unnerving amusement Lucifer was beginning to despise even more than usual.

“Well, well, well,” Alastor drawled, his voice smooth as velvet but laced with that ever-present radio fuzz. “Fancy seeing you gracing us with your presence down here.” He gestured vaguely towards Lucifer with his spatula, his smile never wavering, sharp and unsettling in the dim light. “To what do we owe the distinct honor, Your Majesty, in the humble heart of the hotel kitchen at this ungodly hour? Couldn’t sleep?”

Lucifer forced a tight, brittle smile. “I came down to make some pancakes for everyone’s breakfast,” he stated, trying to keep his tone level. He glanced pointedly at the stove Alastor was occupying, and a look of distaste flickered across his features before he could school it. He opened his mouth, fully intending to add something scathing along the lines of, ‘but unfortunately, you’re already here cooking your usual pretentious, disgusting garbage.’

Instead, what tumbled out, horrifyingly, was: “…but I see you’re already here, preparing something that smells exquisite, as usual.”

The words hung in the air. Lucifer’s eyes widened in abject horror, his jaw slackening slightly as he processed the compliment that had just escaped his own lips. ‘What the—?’

Across the kitchen, Alastor’s perpetually wide grin didn’t falter, but his eyebrows shot up, disappearing momentarily beneath his hairline in surprise. The faint crackle of static around him seemed to intensify for a split second.

Lucifer stared, appalled. Then, his expression went completely deadpan. He slowly raised his index finger, turned sharply on his heel without another word, and pushed back through the swinging kitchen door, letting it flap shut behind him.

Silence reigned for approximately three seconds.

The door swung open again. Lucifer strode back in, stopping in the exact same spot as before. He cleared his throat pointedly, adjusting his coat.

“Okay,” he announced, his voice flat. “Let’s try this again.”

He took a breath, composing himself. Right. Pancakes for Charlie. That was the mission. Ignore the irritatingly well-dressed, humming menace currently occupying the stove. He opened his mouth again, aiming for a tone of weary annoyance. The words he wanted to say were something like: ‘I was hoping, for once, to have the kitchen to myself, but instead I walk in to your grating, off-key humming first thing in the morning and find you already underfoot.’

What actually emerged, however, in a tone that sounded almost… appreciative, was: “I must admit, I feared I might be down here alone, but then I heard such a melodious and rather pleasant tune… it was quite a delightful surprise to discover it was your voice brightening the morning.”

Silence slammed down again, thicker this time. Lucifer froze mid-sentence, his expression contorting from attempted irritation, leaving him looking utterly aghast as the unwanted words echoed in the quiet kitchen.

Across the room, Alastor stared back, his wide smile suddenly looking incredibly strained, stretched unnaturally tight at the corners. The hand holding the spatula faltered, and the utensil slipped from his suddenly numb grasp, clattering loudly onto the tile floor. The sharp sound echoed jarringly in the tense silence. They were both utterly flabbergasted.

Alastor blinked, his strained smile faltering for another fraction of a second before snapping back into place, perhaps a shade too wide, a touch too rigid. His gaze flickered down to the fallen spatula on the floor, then sharply back to the still-cooking omelette in the pan. With a faint snap of his fingers, the dropped utensil vanished from the floor and a new, identical, clean spatula appeared in his hand. Moving with a speed that belied his previous shock, he deftly slid the perfectly cooked omelette from the skillet onto the waiting plate just before it could overcook.

Only then did he turn his full attention back to Lucifer, tilting his head slightly.

“Are you feeling alright, Your Majesty?”

A bright, shimmering golden hue flooded Lucifer's face.

"I believe not," he choked out, his voice tight.

Without another word, he turned abruptly and fled the kitchen, the swinging door banging shut behind him.

---

 

 A short while later, most of the Hazbin Hotel’s main residents were gathered around the large table in the dining area. The usual morning chatter filled the room, punctuated by the clinking of cutlery and Niffty’s occasional hyperactive darting. On the table sat plates of bacon, toast, and several suspiciously perfect-looking omelettes Alastor had prepared, alongside a generous stack of pancakes placed centrally, magically conjured by Lucifer after his retreat from the kitchen, available for anyone to take.

After a night’s sleep, Charlie did seem determinedly more positive, or at least determined to project positivity. She smiled brightly, steering the conversation towards potential new hotel activities, seemingly ready to forgive and forget last night’s destructive argument. She offered both Alastor and her father encouraging nods, perhaps hoping the awkwardness would simply dissipate.

Lucifer, seated near his daughter, picked at a pancake he’d taken from the centrally-placed stack he’d created. He tried to focus on Charlie’s plans, nodding along, but found his gaze drifting conspicuously down the table towards Alastor every few moments. The Radio Demon sipped his coffee, radiating his usual unnerving calm, that wide grin fixed firmly in place. Lucifer frowned, replaying the kitchen incident in his mind. What the hell had gotten into him? Why had he said those… compliments? He stole another glance, puzzled and vaguely irritated by the memory of his own bizarre words and Alastor’s momentarily rattled reaction.

His thoughts were interrupted as Charlie turned to him, her eyes shining with renewed purpose. “Dad?” she began, taking a bite of pancake between words. “So, I was thinking… things are kinda settling down now, and maybe next week, we could organize a big party! You know, like, a grand reopening party, with dancing, of course! Open to everyone, to really show Hell that the Hazbin Hotel is back and ready for business!”

“What do you think?” she pressed, looking at him hopefully. “Could you… maybe… help out with the planning? It would mean a lot.”

Still stinging from the previous night’s argument and desperate to get back in his daughter’s good graces, Lucifer jumped at the chance. “Of course, Char Char! Absolutely!” he agreed instantly, perhaps a little too quickly. “Anything you need! Decorations, music, snacks – consider it done! Top tier!”

From down the table, Alastor lowered his coffee cup, his grin widening fractionally. He opened his mouth, clearly intending to deliver a cutting remark about Lucifer’s suitability for such a task. One could almost hear the intended jab: ‘Are you quite sure, my dear, you want to entrust such an important event to someone as socially inept as your father?’

But what emerged, laced with just a touch more static than usual, was: “Truly commendable, Charlie dear! Such enthusiasm from your father to lend a hand, especially considering this sort of… event planning might be rather outside his usual sphere. A remarkable display of willingness!”

Alastor’s smile remained wide, but his eyes seemed to narrow slightly, as if surprised by the words himself. Lucifer blinked, momentarily thrown off by the apparent praise, however backhanded it felt. Even Charlie looked momentarily surprised, before beaming, taking Alastor’s comment at face value. “Oh! Thanks, Alastor! Yeah, Dad’s the best!”

Alastor’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly at Charlie’s cheerful agreement. Oh, he couldn’t let that stand. He leaned forward slightly, intending to follow up with a venomous, smiling retort: ‘The best? Yes, the best at abandoning his own daughter when she needed him most, wouldn’t you say?’

Instead, his voice came out smooth, carrying over the breakfast chatter, sounding almost sincere: “He truly is putting his whole heart into being a good father these days… and succeeding admirably, wouldn’t you agree?”

The effect was instantaneous and chaotic.

Charlie practically radiated sunshine, her smile widening even further, completely oblivious to the internal struggle behind Alastor’s words.

Angel Dust, who had just raised a forkful of omelette towards his mouth, froze mid-action, the bite tumbling unheeded back onto his plate with a soft plop. Both his mismatched eyes went wide.

Beside Charlie, Vaggie’s visible eye narrowed sharply at Alastor, suspicion warring with sheer disbelief at the uncharacteristically supportive statement.

Lucifer, who had just taken a gulp of his latte (likely loaded with sugar), inhaled sharply at the unexpected (and deeply unsettling) praise, sputtering and breaking into a sudden, violent coughing fit as the liquid went down the wrong way.

And Husk, lowering his own coffee mug with a weary sigh, simply stared between Alastor and the choking King of Hell before uttering a low, gravelly, “What the fuck?”

The commotion at the table slowly subsided. Lucifer finally managed to stop choking, gasping for air and glaring daggers at Alastor across the table, though his face was still flushed a faint gold. Angel and Vaggie exchanged wide-eyed, bewildered glances, while Husk just shook his head and took a long gulp of his coffee.

Alastor, however, simply froze. His smile stayed rigidly fixed, a terrifyingly blank mask. He went utterly still, eyes wide with horror and embarrassment, the radio static around him cutting out abruptly. He looked paralyzed behind the grin.

It was into this shocked silence surrounding the Radio Demon's frozen state that Charlie's voice piped up, completely oblivious to the true source of the tension. She clasped her hands together, her eyes shining with genuine emotion. "Oh, wow," she breathed, looking between her father and the frozen, grinning Alastor, her voice thick with misplaced sentiment. "I... I know things were really bad last night, and maybe I pushed too hard, but hearing you two... actually saying nice things about each other... It really means a lot. I'm so happy you're finally trying to get along!"

Before either the still-recovering Lucifer or the frozen Alastor could react further (or in Alastor's case, unfreeze), Charlie's face lit up with sudden inspiration. "Oh my gosh, I have the best idea!" she exclaimed. "Since you're both already showing such great... uh... cooperative spirit, and Dad, you just offered to help..."

Lucifer felt a sudden, sinking sense of dread. Alastor remained frozen, his rigid smile a terrifying mask.

"You two could plan parts of the party together!" Charlie announced triumphantly. "It would be perfect! Teamwork!" Seeing their expressions (one recovering from choking, the other resembling a horror movie mannequin), she didn't seem deterred. "Okay! So, how about... you two could be jointly in charge of... hmm... the decorations – make them fabulous! AND... oh! You could perform a musical number together for the party! Like, a special duet! Yes! Oh, wow, imagine how amazing that would be! The King of Hell and the Radio Demon, performing live! It'll be the highlight of the night! What do you think?"

Charlie looked directly at her father then, her expression radiating pure, hopeful anticipation. Puppy-dog eyes, fully deployed and aimed straight at his guilt-ridden heart.

Lucifer swallowed hard. Decorating... and performing... with him? The sheer horror. But looking at Charlie's pleading face... damn it all. He couldn't refuse her.

"Ah... well..." he managed, forcing a smile that felt brittle enough to shatter. "If... if that's what you truly think is best, Char Char... then... alright. We'll... collaborate." The word tasted like ash, but he got it out.

From behind his terrifyingly fixed grin, Alastor's eyes flickered almost imperceptibly towards Lucifer, a silent spark of fury in their depths. He remained otherwise perfectly still, utterly, completely trapped by Lucifer's reluctant agreement. He was screwed.

Now Charlie beamed, apparently interpreting Lucifer's strained acceptance and Alastor's paralyzed silence as enthusiastic consent. "Yay! Oh, this is going to be great!"

Beside her, Vaggie quietly but firmly banged her forehead against the surface of the table. Thud.

Inside, however, Lucifer pictured a nightmare scenario of enforced proximity with  the Radio Demon. He instantly flashed back to his last duet with him. Specifically, the part with the falling piano landing squarely on his head. Repeating that, performing anything with the smug prick again after... well, after everything? Pure horror washed over him at the sheer unpleasantness of the prospect. Alastor, silent, murderous intent practically radiating from his narrowed eyes (despite the fixed grin), was presumably envisioning his own personal hell: teamwork with Lucifer. This party was already shaping up to be a special kind of hellish.

 

 

A/N: Next chapter is scheduled to drop this Monday.

Chapter 3: Fluffy Ears and Falsehoods

Lucifer was stalking down the corridor that connected his private tower back towards the main hotel building, his mind still reeling from the baffling and deeply uncomfortable breakfast interactions. All he wanted was the relative sanity of his workshop, perhaps some therapeutic time spent making his little rubber ducks, and absolutely no further encounters with a certain crimson-clad demon for the foreseeable future.

Which, naturally, guaranteed that the demon in question was leaning casually against the corridor wall just ahead, apparently waiting for him.

Alastor’s grin seemed fixed in place, wide and unnerving as ever, though the usual amusement in his eyes was perhaps replaced by a sharper, more calculating glint. “Your Majesty,” he drawled as Lucifer drew near, his voice a low hum of static-laced silk. “I was just looking for you.”

Lucifer flinched, stopping abruptly. He fiddled with the collar of his coat. “Oh. Really?” he said, his voice tighter than intended. He avoided looking directly at Alastor. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I felt I’d embarrassed myself quite enough for one day…” The sentence trailed off, heavy with the unspoken plea to be left alone.

Alastor ignored the attempt at deflection, his smile perhaps tightening slightly. “We need to talk,” he stated simply, the usual playful lilt in his voice replaced by something more focused, more serious. He stepped closer. “Something undoubtedly happened last night, after dear Charlie intervened. I felt the magic… distinctly hers. Although,” he paused, tapping a clawed finger thoughtfully against his chin, “I confess I initially dismissed the notion. I thought her… inexperienced… for an effect quite like this.” His narrowed eyes fixed on Lucifer. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Lucifer stared back, Alastor’s words echoing in his head. Charlie… the magic… inexperienced… effect like this… Suddenly, it clicked. His eyes widened, confusion replaced by dawning, horrified comprehension. He straightened up, snapping his fingers sharply.

“Of course!” he exclaimed, maybe a little too loud for the corridor. “Her outburst! That flash of light! How did I not think of it?! It was Charlie!” he realized aloud. “She must have accidentally unleashed some kind of… emotional wish-magic… whammy! She definitely cast something on us!”

He paused, pacing a step or two, adjusting the tilt of his hat thoughtfully as the implications began to sink in. “Right.” He stopped, brow furrowed in concentration, looking back at Alastor. “Now… the important part is remembering her exact words again? She was upset, yelling about us fighting… she wanted…” He trailed off, trying desperately to pull the specific phrase from the chaotic memory of the previous night. His lips moved silently, replaying the scene…

Opposite him, Alastor stood unnervingly still, his narrowed eyes also showing intense concentration behind the rigid grin. He too was clearly accessing the memory, dissecting Charlie’s desperate, magic-infused plea.

Then, as the crucial fragment surfaced in both their minds at the exact same instant, their voices layered over each other in perfect, horrified unison:

“…say nice things!”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and dreadful. They stared at each other, the full, ghastly implication hitting them like a physical blow. It wasn’t just random magic compelling arbitrary sounds. It was specifically about forcing niceness. Positive sentiment. Towards each other.

Lucifer looked ready to be sick. Alastor’s smile didn’t break, but the static around him might have hissed sharply for a split second. The true horror of the situation finally crystallized.

A moment of thick, appalled silence stretched between them. Then, the calculating glint sharpened further in Alastor’s narrowed eyes. His posture, though still tense, seemed to regain some of its analytical edge. If this was magic, it had rules. Limitations. An experiment was in order. He deliberately brought to mind an image of his technological nemesis.

“That insufferable television-headed cretin, Vox,” Alastor purred, the words dripping with his customary venomous disdain, completely clear and blessedly negative. “Such a flashy, flickering simpleton, utterly reliant on cheap visual noise and fleeting trends. Positively ghastly.”

The insults rolled off his tongue without impediment, tinged with static but undeniably nasty. A wave of profound relief washed over Alastor, so potent he almost let his smile soften. He caught himself, merely letting out a soft, almost inaudible sigh instead. He turned his full attention back to Lucifer, a shadow of his usual smug confidence returning, though the underlying tension remained palpable.

“Well, that’s some relief,” he commented, a sharp edge returning to his tone now that the immediate test was over. “Apparently, this… affliction… is limited. Just between you and me.”

Lucifer stared, processing this new information. Relief warred with renewed dread. Limited? Yes. Limited specifically to forced interactions with Alastor? That was somehow even worse. Still… if it was magic, it could likely be undone. His mind started working, seeking an angle.

“Like any curse, there must be a way to break it,” he mused aloud, pacing a short step again and tapping his chin thoughtfully. He glanced at Alastor, who remained disturbingly still and radiating menace, then back at the far wall as an idea sparked. His expression shifted from dread to sudden, perhaps overly optimistic, insight.

“I’ve got it!” Lucifer announced, snapping his fingers for the second time that morning. He turned back to Alastor, looking rather proud of his deduction. “Charlie’s magic kicked in when she wanted us to say nice things, right? So! Maybe the trick is to lean into it! What if we try… saying something nice to each other on purpose? Voluntarily! Perhaps that satisfies the condition, fulfills the magic’s requirement, and poof! The whole thing breaks!”

He beamed, clearly thinking this a stroke of genius, seemingly oblivious to the way Alastor’s smile tightened even further, his narrowed eyes now fixed on Lucifer with an expression that hovered somewhere between utter disbelief and profound irritation.

Before Alastor could even begin to articulate the monumental stupidity of that suggestion, Lucifer plunged ahead. “Okay, I’ll go first! Let’s see…” He squared his shoulders slightly and stared intently at Alastor, genuinely concentrating, scanning the Radio Demon for any redeeming quality he could voice without choking. His brow furrowed. “There has to be something positive… right?” he muttered under his breath.

Alastor’s expression remained utterly deadpan behind the rigidly fixed smile. “Your effort truly is commendable, Your Majesty,” he stated flatly, the observation devoid of any warmth (or curse-compelled alteration).

Lucifer rolled his eyes, pointedly ignoring the dry remark and refocusing his search. “Right, okay, uh…” His gaze flickered desperately over Alastor’s form, finally landing on the deer-like ears poking through his hair. “Okay! Got it! Your… ears! They look… surprisingly fluffy?” The words rushed out, awkward and uncertain. As soon as they left his lips, a bright golden blush flared across Lucifer’s cheeks. He winced, looking away as if pained by his own words.

A smirk touched Alastor's lips, pure amusement glinting in his narrowed eyes as he took in the King's spectacular blush. "And you," he simply stated, the smirk conveying his enjoyment of the situation, "possess quite the... pleasant... color when you blush, Your Majesty."

If possible, Lucifer’s blush deepened even further. He looked utterly mortified. This was excruciating. He took a shaky breath, still mostly looking at his own shoes.

“So… did it work?” he asked hesitantly. “Go on. Try… try thinking something nasty to say to me now. See if you can say it.” He visibly braced himself for the expected venom.

Alastor’s smirk widened into a full, sharp-toothed grin, radiating predatory confidence.  “No problem whatsoever,” he chuckled, malice practically sparkling in his narrowed eyes. “I have a veritable library of colorful commentary practically straining at the leash.”

He focused, picturing Lucifer’s current flustered state, selecting the perfect scathing observation… and spoke.

What emerged instead, smooth and startlingly neutral, almost analytical, was: “I must admit, Your Majesty, the sheer scale of power one senses radiating from you, even when you’re… discomposed… is… undeniably impressive.”

There was a stunned beat of silence. Alastor’s grin froze solid once more, the smug confidence vanishing instantly, replaced by that now-familiar look of wide-eyed, horrified disbelief. Lucifer stared, his own blush fading slightly only to be replaced by sheer, unadulterated confusion mixed with dread. Nope. Their voluntary compliments hadn’t negated the curse. It was definitely still active.

Seeing Alastor wince at his own words, Lucifer felt a surge of chaotic energy and immediately seized the chance to retaliate. 'My turn!' he thought, focusing on the Radio Demon's irritatingly tall and thin build. "Right back atcha, you scrawny, lanky—!" He started, intending to deliver a sharp insult. But the intended word died on his lips, twisted by the curse into something entirely different and deeply mortifying. What tumbled out instead, much to his own horror, was: “And your… well, your height! It’s… certainly… striking!” He immediately clapped a hand over his mouth, the mortified golden blush returning with a vengeance.

This time, the sheer unexpected awkwardness seemed to snap Alastor out of his frozen horror. A short, sharp bark of genuine laughter escaped him – it wasn’t his usual cruel or condescending chuckle, but a brief burst of pure, startled amusement. Perhaps it was Lucifer’s choice of compliment, his obvious embarrassment, or just the utter absurdity of their predicament, but the laugh held no malice.

‘Striking? Why the hell did I say striking?’ Lucifer mentally groaned, even as a tiny, traitorous corner of his mind admitted that Alastor did cut an imposing figure. ‘No! Bad brain!’

Alastor’s laughter died quickly, though a flicker of surprised amusement remained in his eyes, warring with the underlying horror. ‘Undeniably impressive power? That nonsense at breakfast about him succeeding admirably as a father? Where in the Hell did THAT come from?’ The chilling possibility reared its head again: the magic wasn’t forcing falsehoods, but extracting buried truths. He violently suppressed the thought. ‘Utterly preposterous’. He composed himself, needing to establish the ‘official’ interpretation immediately.

“Let’s get this straight,” Alastor snapped, his voice sharp and crisp, meeting Lucifer’s mortified gaze. “The magic makes us say things. False things. Utterly meaningless.”

Lucifer practically lunged at the explanation like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline. “Yep!” he agreed, nodding far too vigorously. “Exactly! Falsehoods! Meaningless! Just random nice-sounding… noise! Not real thoughts! Got it! Yes, yes!” He looked profoundly relieved to have this ‘understanding’ to cling to, despite the lingering blush.

Alastor watched Lucifer’s frantic agreement with a thoughtful, calculating look returning to his eyes. Falsehoods, yes. But the trigger… Charlie’s words… He tilted his head. “Wait a moment,” he said, voice regaining its analytical edge. “Her exact words… it wasn’t just about saying ‘the nice thing,’ was it? Wasn’t there something more?” He tapped his chin. “Something about…”

Lucifer’s eyes widened slightly as he also dredged up the memory of Charlie’s tearful plea. “…’And learn to get along’?!” he finished, the second part of her wish hitting him.

“Precisely,” Alastor confirmed with a sharp nod, though the implications clearly displeased him. “Perhaps merely uttering pleasantries wasn’t the core of the command. Perhaps the accidental magic requires…” He gestured vaguely between them with a clawed hand. “…actual cooperation. Evidence of ‘getting along’.”

A horrible realization dawned on both their faces simultaneously as they thought of the task Charlie had just assigned them.

“…The party,” Lucifer breathed, dread washing over him again.

“…The decorations,” Alastor added, his voice tight with distaste.

“…And the duet,” Lucifer finished, sounding utterly miserable.

Alastor let out a low hiss of static. “It seems,” he stated, the conclusion unwelcome but logical, “that if we wish to be free of this… compulsion… actually collaborating on these ridiculous party tasks might be our only recourse. Fulfilling the entirety of her accidental demand.” He said it as if proposing a highly distasteful but necessary scientific experiment.

Lucifer looked horrified at the prospect, but the alternative – being stuck complimenting Alastor indefinitely – was arguably worse. “You… you think that’ll work?” he asked, grasping at this new, unpleasant straw. “Actually planning… and singing… together?”

Alastor gave a stiff shrug, his smile thin. “It’s the next logical variable to test. Unless you have a superior hypothesis, Your Majesty?”

Lucifer visibly winced. A superior hypothesis? No. Did he want to collaborate with Alastor on anything, let alone a duet? Absolutely not. But did he want to be magically compelled to compliment this grinning jackass for potentially eternity? Even less so. He let out a deeply put-upon sigh that ruffled his collar.

“Alright then! Fine!” he conceded, the reluctance practically dripping from his voice. He straightened his coat, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. “We’ll meet. Tonight. In the… Music Room.” He forced the location out. “After dinner. To… start figuring out this duet.”

Alastor’s grin widened slightly, clearly savoring Lucifer’s discomfort. “Ah yes, the Music Room,” he purred, his voice laced with amusement. “Charlie’s charming little experiment in ‘harmonious rehabilitation,’ if I recall? Believing a few jaunty tunes can somehow purify the delightfully damned? Such precious optimism!” He chuckled softly, a dry, staticky sound. “Very well. Tonight it is.” He gave a slow, deliberate inclination of his head. “As you wish, Your Majesty. I shall look forward to our… creative synergy… with great anticipation.”

With a final huff of frustration and barely suppressed dread, Lucifer turned sharply on his heel and stalked decisively towards his tower, leaving Alastor alone in the corridor. The Radio Demon watched him go, his smile firmly in place but utterly devoid of any genuine amusement, reflecting only a grim resignation to the inevitable disaster their forced collaboration was bound to become.

 

 

Notes:

The next chapter, "Tangled Up In Hell," will be posted on Thursday.

Chapter 4: Tangled Up In Hell

The afternoon dragged on at the Hazbin Hotel. In the main lobby, Charlie, apparently tireless, was attempting to organize one of her typical group activities. Lucifer was already there, slumped deep in an armchair nearby, wearing an expression that suggested he'd rather be in any other circle of Hell.

Alastor, maybe hoping to avoid precisely this type of interaction after his… clarifying… conversation with Lucifer in the corridor, had the misfortune of descending the main staircase at that exact moment.

"Alastor! Perfect timing!" Charlie exclaimed, spotting him immediately and rushing towards him, her eyes shining with almost blinding approval. "I just wanted to tell you," she continued, beaming, stopping him at the foot of the stairs, "I was so proud of you and Dad at breakfast this morning! Hearing the nice things you said... seeing you two really trying to get along is wonderful!"

Alastor maintained his strained smile, wondering which distorted version of events the princess had perceived. Nice things. Right.

"And so," Charlie went on, oblivious to his internal battle, "I thought, since we're all working on getting along better for the party, you could join us for this new trust-building game! You know, it's something we could all do to bond a little!" She gestured towards a clear space in the lobby where Vaggie looked exasperatedly at Angel Dust, who seemed far too amused by whatever instructions he'd just received. A muffled groan emanated from Lucifer's armchair.

Alastor observed the scene with poorly concealed distaste. Trust games. How pedestrian. With Lucifer present and likely involved? Repugnant. However… 'learn to get along.' Charlie's words, and their theory from the corridor, came back to him. Perhaps… perhaps indulging this foolish charade truly was the only way. Demonstrate 'collaboration' to break the compulsion. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but freedom was possibly worth the temporary humiliation.

After a calculated pause, his expression shifted to one of polite curiosity. "Why, my dear Charlie," he drawled, his voice filtering smoothly through his smile. "If you believe my participation would benefit group cohesion… how could I possibly refuse?"

Charlie clapped her hands together, overjoyed. "Fantastic! Dad already agreed to participate too!" she chirped, blissfully ignoring the second, louder groan coming from the armchair.

Alastor didn't move a facial muscle, but inwardly, the idea of having to participate in whatever absurd 'game' Charlie had devised – potentially involving close proximity to Lucifer – while under the effect of magic compelling nauseatingly positive commentary, promised a new, exquisite level of personal torture. Excellent.

"Okay, everyone, circle up, circle up!" Charlie instructed again, buzzing with misguided hope as she led Alastor towards the group forming in the cleared space. Lucifer was dragged reluctantly from his chair by Vaggie to join them. Charlie fluttered around, 'optimizing' everyone's placement. "Let's see... Vaggie, perfect there... Angel, how about next to Husk... Cherri..." she hummed. Then, with an air of exaggerated casualness that was painfully obvious, she directed Alastor. "And Alastor! Why don't you stand right... here?"

'Here', inevitably, was the spot directly beside Lucifer Morningstar. Charlie gave a quick, overly bright smile that didn't quite meet her eyes, avoiding looking directly at the pair for a beat too long before moving to adjust Niffty. "There! All set! Doesn't this look like a wonderfully connected circle?" she declared, failing spectacularly at nonchalance.

Lucifer and Alastor simultaneously registered their enforced proximity. Both demons instantly looked as though they'd accidentally swallowed spoiled milk. Lucifer visibly tensed up, seemingly trying to subtly inch a millimeter away without anyone noticing. Alastor went completely rigid, his smile fixed firmly in place while his narrowed eyes radiated pure, undiluted irritation straight ahead. Standing this close clearly felt fundamentally wrong on multiple levels. This was going to be terrible.

"Okay!" Charlie chirped brightly, seemingly oblivious. She clapped her hands. "So, for our 'Demon Knot' game – fun name, right? – it's super easy and great for teamwork!"

She beamed, gesturing expansively. "Alright, first step! Everyone reach across the circle with your right hand and grab the hand of someone who isn't standing right next to you! Go on!"

There was a beat of collective reluctance. Angel Dust theatrically reached across and purposefully snagged Husk's hand. Husk let out a long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes dramatically, but his ears didn't flatten and he didn't pull his hand away. Charlie reached across and beamed as Vaggie met her grasp with her right hand, offering a quick, affectionate squeeze that Vaggie returned with the ghost of a smile. Cherri Bomb grabbed Lucifer's offered right hand. Alastor, maintaining his smile despite the circumstances, precisely extended his right hand across the circle and took Angel Dust's free hand. Niffty used her right hand to grab Husk's free right hand.

"Okay, great! Now, same thing with your left hand!" Charlie instructed cheerfully. "Grab a different, new person's hand or arm! Not your neighbor!"

This second wave created the true tangle. Lucifer reached out his left hand and connected with Vaggie's free one. Alastor extended his left hand, possibly aiming for Cherri Bomb, but Niffty zipped in and latched onto his left sleeve near the wrist with one small, determined hand, giggling. Alastor glanced down at her, his smile indulgent – he displayed none of the stiffness or static crackle that another's unwanted touch might provoke; Niffty's brand of chaos seemed uniquely tolerated. Cherri Bomb grabbed Husk's remaining free arm. Charlie connected her remaining hand with one of Angel's extra free hands. The knot pulled tight, a confusing mess where the chain of connections still inevitably forced Lucifer and Alastor into uncomfortably close, tangled quarters.

"Perfect!" Charlie declared, beaming at the pretzel of demons she had created. "Now you're all connected! The goal is to untangle yourselves back into one big circle, without letting go of the hands you're holding! You'll need to talk to each other, cooperate, figure out how to duck under, step over, and turn around! It's all about communication and physical trust and supporting each other!" She finished with an encouraging nod.

Lucifer and Alastor, now physically meshed into this demonic tangle and far, far too close, shared another look – pure, shared horror mixed with intense irritation. This was infinitely worse than they'd imagined.

Charlie's misplaced encouragement spurred renewed, albeit chaotic, efforts to untangle.

But the epicenter of awkwardness was, undeniably, Lucifer and Alastor. Their arms were crossed and pinned between others, forcing them chest-to-chest (or rather, chest-to-sternum, given the height difference) with every slight movement. Lucifer, needing Alastor to move his arm which was currently pressing uncomfortably against his ribs, opened his mouth to snap, 'Get your damn arm out of my side!' but instead heard himself say, "Could you reposition your... ah... your surprisingly strong-looking... arm? Slightly? It's... pressing." A mortified golden blush immediately bloomed on his cheeks.

Alastor, whose own hand was pinned awkwardly near Lucifer's waist by Charlie's grip, went ramrod stiff, his smile a mask of pure agony. He needed the King to shift back an inch, as Lucifer's back was currently pressed firmly against his chest. 'Move back, you insufferable pest!' his mind snarled. His voice, however, came out tight and strained, "Your Majesty, might I impose upon you to shift back... just a fraction? Your..." Alastor's eyes flickered involuntarily to the point of contact. "...your back feels... surprisingly solid. Muscular, even. It's... impeding progress." The static around him crackled violently, as if actively fighting the words.

Lucifer spluttered, blushing an even deeper gold, stunned speechless by that particular forced observation coming from Alastor.

Around them, the untangling efforts of the others faltered as they stared, mouths agape. Angel Dust looked like he'd just hit the jackpot. Vaggie buried her face in her free hand more forcefully. Husk just looked profoundly dead inside. Cherri muttered a louder "The fuck?". Niffty continued to giggle from the floor, thoroughly enjoying being tangled. Charlie, however, was practically vibrating with joy. "See! You're communicating so well! Finding positive ways to express physical needs! This is fantastic progress!"

Her words spurred more awkward shuffling.

 "Okay, Husk, try stepping over Angel's leg!" Vaggie directed, trying to restore order. Husk grumbled but attempted it, causing a shift in the knot's balance. Lucifer, who was trying to pivot away from Alastor while simultaneously following Niffty's bizarre tugging from below, lost his footing for a second. He stumbled forward just as Alastor, attempting to twist his torso to give Cherri Bomb more room, turned inward.

Suddenly, the chaotic motion froze them in place. Their faces were abruptly, shockingly close – mere millimeters apart. Close enough for Lucifer to find himself unexpectedly focused, not on the unnerving smile or the sharp teeth, but on the startlingly deep, ruby-red hue of Alastor's eyes, fringed by surprisingly thick, dark lashes. Close enough for Alastor to see tiny flecks of amber dancing in Lucifer's wide, startled eyes and catch the faint scent of apples and a pleasant, subtle cologne.

A bright golden blush instantly flared across Lucifer’s cheeks, hotter than before. Alastor’s smile remained plastered on, but the static around him spiked noticeably, and a distinct, dark red flush visibly crept up his neck and dusted his high cheekbones. His pupils dilated for a fraction of a second. Their eyes locked – shock, confusion, maybe something else entirely unidentifiable reflected in their gazes. Then, drawn by an involuntary impulse, both their eyes flickered down simultaneously to stare at the other's lips for one suspended, breathless heartbeat before snapping back up to meet shocked eyes again.

In that charged, silent moment, staring at lips mere millimeters away, completely thrown by the proximity and the unexpectedly non-threatening details he'd just noticed, Lucifer felt a bizarre, utterly inappropriate urge rise within him. An insane impulse to simply... erase that tiny distance. His own lips parted slightly.

The air crackled. The background noise of the game seemed to fade into a dull roar, leaving only the heavy silence and the low hum of static between them. What was happening—?

"Okay, Dad, now quickly, under Vaggie's arm! Go, go, go!" Charlie's cheerful, oblivious voice shattered the charged moment like fragile glass. "Alastor, try turning towards Angel! We're almost there, team!"

The moment shattered. Lucifer jerked back as if burned, banging his elbow against Husk in his haste, his face practically incandescent gold, appalled at his own thought. Alastor snapped his head forward, smile wider and possibly more strained than ever. He pointedly ignored the faint dark red flush still lingering high on his cheekbones, fixing his gaze intently on some point across the lobby while the frantic energy continued buzzing around him. The game lurched back into motion.

After several more minutes of chaotic shuffling, strained cooperation, surprisingly helpful directions from Vaggie, Husk letting out a yelp as Niffty, tangled near his legs and likely acting on pure, sudden manic impulse, took a sharp, unprovoked nip at his tail before letting out a high-pitched giggle, and a series of bafflingly polite (and increasingly ignored) requests passing between Lucifer and Alastor, the knot finally, mercifully, unraveled. Demons stumbled apart – Husk swatting irritably at his backside while grumbling darkly, "Who the fuck talked me into this shit anyway?" – hastily smoothing clothes and reclaiming their personal space with visible relief, though the air remained thick with residual awkwardness.

Angel Dust, however, practically vibrated with mischievous glee. He leaned casually against a nearby wall, fanning himself theatrically, his mismatched eyes fixed intently on Lucifer (still flushed gold and trying desperately to look composed) and Alastor (who stood ramrod straight, adjusting his bowtie with sharp, precise movements, a low hum of static surrounding him).

"Wow," Angel purred, looking them both up and down with a knowing smirk. "That was pretty intense." He paused, letting the comment hang before adding with a suggestive drawl, "Felt like I was watchin' behind-the-scenes footage from one of my rougher shoots, ya know? All that... forced closeness and awkward fumblin'." He chuckled dirtily.

Lucifer looked like he wanted to simply melt into a puddle and disappear through the floorboards, sputtering wordlessly and turning an even deeper shade of gold, if possible. Alastor’s smile remained fixed, but the ambient static around him crackled loudly, forming into a distinct, low growl – a very clear warning that Angel, for once, might be wise enough to heed. Angel wisely snapped his mouth shut, though his eyes still danced with amusement.

Ignoring the palpable tension, the near-teleportation-level embarrassment, and the low-key death threat, Charlie started clapping enthusiastically. "Yay, team! You did it! You untangled!" she cheered, absolutely beaming at the exhausted, disheveled, and emotionally scarred group of demons. "See? Wasn't that great? Such fantastic cooperation! What a huge success!"

She clasped her hands together, already looking forward. "Oh, I absolutely can’t wait for our next team-building session! We should definitely do this game again soon!"

A loud, simultaneous GROAN erupted from everyone else in the lobby – Lucifer, Alastor (whose groan was masked by a sharp burst of static), Vaggie, Husk, Angel, Cherri. It was a beautiful chorus of shared suffering and dread. Even Niffty paused her manic tidying to emit a strange, high-pitched groan before zipping off after a cockroach.

Charlie blinked, momentarily taken aback by the unified sound of despair. Her smile wavered, just a fraction. "...Or, uh... maybe we can try a different game next time?" she offered, slightly less certain but determinedly hopeful.

---

 

Back in the relative safety of his private workshop in the tower, surrounded by comforting legions of rubber ducks, Lucifer paced like a caged lion. He needed to decompress. He needed to vent about that entire humiliating afternoon. And he really needed to work through his frustration about being forced to collaborate with that crimson-clad menace. He summoned a lump of pliable, faintly glowing material, settling at his workbench to channel his agitation into creation.

"That smug, infuriating...!" he started muttering, trying to magically shape a standard yellow duck, thinking of Alastor's reaction in the corridor. "...that smug... infuriatingly attractive... individual!" The wrong words slipped out, twisted by the lingering magic. Lucifer growled in frustration, nearly squashing the duck embryo. "Always smiling!" he spat, picturing that constant, infuriating grin. He opened his mouth again, intending to snarl something truly scathing about wiping that look off Alastor's face, but the curse latched onto the intent and hideously transformed it. What came out instead, loud in the quiet workshop, was: "Makes me want to just... kiss—!"

Lucifer froze, slapping both hands over his mouth as if he could physically shove the word back in. His eyes were wide with sheer, unadulterated horror. ‘Did I say that?! Out loud?! By myself?!’ A violent wave of golden blush surged up his neck and face, even though only the ducks were witness to his mortification. ‘What the hell is this magic DOING TO ME?!’

He groaned, dropping his hands and running them distractedly over his hat, desperate to think about anything else. "Can't even complain properly in my own damn tower!" He glared at a nearby duck wearing a tiny crown. "And that game! Being stuck right next to him! Feeling his... his..." damn, annoyingly scrawny–"...his annoyingly sturdy presence!" He shuddered. "And then he laughs! Actually laughs! Like any of this is funny! That... that..." awful grating—"...that surprisingly unrestrained pleasant sound!"

Lucifer slammed his fist lightly on the bench. Why were only nice or observational things coming out, even here? It was torture! He was supposed to be making a duck to relax, damn it! He looked down at what his magic, guided by his distracted, frustrated, curse-addled subconscious, had been creating while he ranted.

His eyes widened in sheer horror. Sitting innocently on his workbench wasn't a standard yellow duck, but a fully formed, brand-new rubber duck. A vibrant, sharp red one. With two perfect little bumps on its head shaped like tiny antlers, deer ears, and a beak stretched into an unnervingly wide grin. There was even a microscopic, impeccably formed monocle over one eye.

He had created an Alastor-duck.

Lucifer stared at the offending creation in his hands for a silent, stunned moment. Then, a short, sharp scoff of disbelief and utter contempt escaped him. ‘Ridiculous! Utterly absurd!’ He raised his hand, fully intending to hurl the crimson monstrosity into the bin labelled 'Existential Crises & Design Failures' with extreme prejudice, to erase the evidence of his subconscious slip-up.

But... his hand paused mid-air. He looked down again at the bizarre yet perfectly formed little figure. It was mortifying. And yet... something stopped him from destroying it. With a sigh that sounded less like exasperation and more like weary, confused resignation, Lucifer gently placed the brand-new Alastor-duck on a nearby shelf, nestled behind a row of cheerful yellow prototypes. Out of sight, maybe, but not discarded. Not yet.

He really couldn't wait for tonight's meeting, if only because it meant this cursed, confusing day was one step closer to being over. The dread of the duet itself was, of course, a separate issue entirely.

 

Notes:

The next chapter, 'A Different Tune,' will be posted on Monday! Thanks for reading!

Chapter 5: A Different Tune

The heavy oak door to the Music Room creaked open, and Lucifer Morningstar stepped inside, already bracing himself for the inevitable unpleasantness. He’d managed to stall, wandering his workshop, fiddling with ducks (pointedly ignoring the new, crimson one glaring from the shelf), but the agreed-upon time had arrived. Time to face the music – quite literally, it seemed.

He stopped dead just inside the doorway, any thought of complaint evaporating instantly.

The room was dimly lit, bathed in the soft, ambient glow filtering through the tall, arched windows. The stained glass, a clear collaboration showcasing both Charlie’s bright, hopeful character scenes and Lucifer’s own touch in the intricate, golden-accented framing, cast complex, colorful patterns across the polished floor and the grand piano itself. And seated at that piano, seemingly lost to the world, was Alastor.

He was playing. Not just idly, but pouring focus into an intricate, flowing melody that filled the quiet space. It was complex, resonant, and played with a mastery that rooted Lucifer to the spot. He leaned slightly against the doorframe, momentarily forgetting everything else, simply captivated by the sight and sound before him.

His eyes were drawn to Alastor’s hands. Long, elegant fingers moved over the ivory and ebony keys with a mesmerizing grace and dexterity. There was a fluid confidence in their dance, an intimate connection between the musician and his instrument that Lucifer found himself admiring intensely. His gaze traveled up, taking in the focused line of Alastor’s silhouette, the way he held himself poised over the keyboard. The shifting, colorful light from the windows played across the vibrant crimson of his hair, making it seem richer, deeper, and highlighted the tufted ears nestled within. They looked… surprisingly soft, delicate even, catching the light in a way that sparked an unexpected, fleeting curiosity within him. Soft… the thought echoed, strange and persistent. Alastor seemed completely absorbed in the melody, possessing a quiet, focused intensity that Lucifer found utterly arresting. There was an elegance there, undeniable and compelling.

Then, the final, resonant chord hung in the air before fading into a profound silence. Alastor’s hands lifted slowly from the keys, hovering for a moment before resting in his lap. He didn’t turn immediately, letting the quiet linger, but the slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his head told Lucifer his presence hadn’t gone unnoticed. After a beat that felt charged with unspoken energy, Alastor pivoted smoothly on the bench to face him, his signature wide smile firmly in place, red eyes locking onto Lucifer’s.

Lucifer jolted, heat instantly flooding his cheeks with that mortifyingly bright gold. He’d been staring – completely captivated, lost in observing… well, Alastor. He straightened up quickly, scrambling internally for his usual defenses, for the familiar shield of annoyance. ‘Okay, music’s over. Say something cutting,’ his mind urged, trying desperately to pull him back from the strange, warm confusion that had settled over him. He opened his mouth, ready to force out anything that sounded remotely like his normal self.

But the curse, perhaps amplified by the genuine awe still swirling within him, seized the moment. “That… that was truly remarkable,” Lucifer heard himself say, the words breathlessly honest, escaping before his brain could censor them. The golden flush on his cheeks deepened as he met Alastor’s gaze directly. “You play… beautifully. The piece itself, it was incredibly… expressive. Quite moving, actually.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and resonant as the final chord had been. Alastor’s smile remained unwaveringly wide, yet… something flickered behind his eyes. A hint of surprise? He made a minute, almost imperceptible adjustment to his bowtie, a gesture so slight it was almost missed, yet utterly unnecessary. He shifted subtly on the piano bench, his posture the very definition of controlled stillness, but emitting a faint, nearly silent hum of static that felt different – less like a warning, more like a disturbance in his carefully maintained composure. For that brief, suspended moment, Alastor looked undeniably, inexplicably, thrown off balance by the unexpected weight of Lucifer’s unguarded sincerity.

Alastor tilted his head then, his smile sharpening as his gaze swept over Lucifer, really taking in his appearance now that the initial shock of the compliment about his playing had passed. No pristine white coat. No apple-topped hat. Just the waistcoat, shirt, and bowtie, standing there flushed gold and clearly flustered. ‘Decided to grace us with a more… casual look, Your Majesty? How utterly common,’ Alastor thought, preparing the sneer.

He opened his mouth, the insult perfectly formed, ready to reassert control. “No coat? No hat tonight?” he asked, his voice smooth as silk, grin widening slightly. The curse clamped down hard. Instead of the planned mockery, what followed was startlingly direct: “It’s… different.” His smile flickered, a micro-expression of internal conflict. “Suits you, though,” he heard himself continue, the words flat, almost observational despite the underlying truth the curse was forcing out. “You look… good.” A soft crackle of static briefly underscored the statement, betraying the effort.

Lucifer blinked, startled by the bluntness. If possible, his golden blush intensified. His hand instinctively flew up, fingers brushing through his hair where the hat usually rested, a nervous, self-conscious gesture. Compliments from Alastor felt fundamentally wrong. Compliments about his looks? Okay, this curse was definitely making things weirder and weirder. “I— uh—” he stammered, looking anywhere but at Alastor. “Right! Yes! Well! The duet!” he blurted out, desperate to steer them back to the unpleasant, but less personally mortifying, reason they were there.

Seizing the change of subject like a lifeline, Lucifer straightened up and, with a flick of his wrist accompanied by a faint shimmer of golden light, summoned his instrument. The accordion settled into his grasp – his usual one, with its pale cream body contrasting with the black patterned bellows and familiar keyboard. He shifted it into playing position, the straps settling over his shoulders, hoping the familiar weight and the task at hand would help dissipate the mortifying warmth still lingering on his cheeks.

Alastor watched the instrument materialize. One sharp eyebrow arched, and the static around him seemed to crackle a little louder, betraying his internal judgment even as his smile remained fixed. 'An odious circus box,' he thought with disdain. 'Of all the tasteless, common instruments available... naturally, Lucifer would choose this.' 'Leave it to him,' the thought was sharp with contempt, 'to favor such auditory torture.'

Despite these thoughts swirling behind his grin, Alastor spoke, his voice smooth as velvet. “Ah,” he began. “The accordion.” He paused, letting the name hang in the air. The curse took hold, forcing out the assessment filtered through unwilling positivity. “A… bold choice, Your Majesty.” Another carefully timed beat, eyes glittering. “Its sound is so… vibrant,” he continued, the word feeling slightly forced, “and… insistently cheerful.” He paused again, head tilting slightly as if considering a particularly bizarre scientific hypothesis. The curse pushed out one final, reluctant concession towards collaboration. “Though unconventional… I suppose its… spirited quality, against the piano…” His smile tightened almost imperceptibly. “…might actually work.”

Lucifer scoffed, the sound sharp despite the lingering golden flush on his cheeks. ‘Work? Don’t make me laugh. Nothing involving the two of us ever works,’ his mind instantly fired back. He opened his mouth to say exactly that, probably with less eloquence and more volume.

The curse, however, snagged the denial, twisting it into something startlingly contrary. “Work?” he repeated, the initial disbelief clear in his tone before the magic smoothed it into reluctant contemplation. “We’re… certainly different,” he admitted, his gaze flicking between the accordion in his hands and Alastor seated at the piano. A confused expression crossed his face. “But sometimes…” The words felt foreign, emerging against his will yet echoing a strange sort of truth he didn’t want to acknowledge. “…sometimes different elements can harmonize,” he finished, the musical term fitting yet feeling alien on his tongue, “in… quite remarkable ways.” He looked down at his accordion, profoundly disturbed by the hopeful, almost philosophical statement that had just come out of his own mouth regarding Alastor.

A heavy silence fell, thick with unspoken implications. Lucifer didn’t dare look up immediately, still reeling from his own words. When he finally did, his gaze was drawn inexorably across the room to meet Alastor’s. The Radio Demon was statue-still, his smile frozen, eyes wide with an emotion that mirrored Lucifer’s own shock. The air between them seemed to hum, charged with the undeniable shift their reluctant, curse-forced admissions had created. For a long, suspended moment, they simply stared, both visibly shaken by this crack in their usual foundation of animosity, caught in the gravitational pull of something new and deeply unsettling.

It was Alastor who broke the tableau. He gave a sharp, distinct clear of his throat, the sound cutting cleanly through the charged quiet. He turned his head deliberately back towards the piano keys, almost too quickly, his posture straightening, regaining its usual sharp composure as if by sheer force of will. His smile resettled, maybe a fraction too wide, masking whatever disturbance lay beneath.

“Well then,” Alastor said, his voice regaining its smooth, broadcaster’s cadence, maybe just a touch too briskly. “To business.” He placed his elegant fingers back onto the keys, though didn’t immediately play. “Shall we attempt to compose something together?”

Lucifer drew in a sharp breath, the accordion suddenly feeling heavier on his shoulders. Compose. Together. Right. This was the task. The potential path to breaking the curse. Steeling himself with a resolve that felt paper-thin, he nodded stiffly and walked the few steps separating him from the grand piano.

As Lucifer approached, Alastor, with a subtle flick of his wrist almost too quick to follow, manifested his own tools. A faint shimmer of crimson static coalesced above the polished surface of the piano, solidifying into a handsome, staff-lined manuscript book and a slender, perfectly sharpened pencil, resting neatly beside Alastor’s hand. Always prepared.

Stopping beside the piano bench where Alastor sat poised, Lucifer assessed the situation. Instead of asking the Radio Demon to shift or conjuring a separate seat, he chose a more… direct approach. With a focused glance and a casual wave of his hand, a soft golden light enveloped the far end of the plush velvet bench. Smoothly and silently, the bench extended, magically doubling its length to comfortably accommodate two.

Ignoring the slight, almost imperceptible widening of Alastor’s grin at the display (was it amusement? Annoyance? Impossible to tell), Lucifer carefully sat down on the newly created space, adjusting his accordion on his lap. The proximity was… immediate. Close enough to feel an odd, faint coolness radiating from the Radio Demon, close enough to sense the low hum of static that always surrounded him. He kept his eyes fixed determinedly forward on the music stand above the keyboard, acutely aware of the demon beside him.

Alastor picked up the pencil, tapping it lightly against the cover of the blank manuscript, his gaze also directed forward, seemingly unfazed by his new, rather close, bench partner.

“Right then,” Alastor drawled, the epitome of composed readiness. “Shall we begin?”

And so they began. Or, perhaps more accurately, they attempted to. Alastor, precise and controlled, played a few bars on the piano – a complex, slightly melancholic jazz progression. Pencil hovered over the manuscript paper, he glanced expectantly at Lucifer.

Lucifer took a breath and tried to weave a counter-melody with his accordion. The sound felt a bit too bright, maybe too simple against the intricate harmony Alastor had laid down.

“Hmm,” Alastor hummed, tapping the pencil thoughtfully. “An… intriguing melodic choice, Your Majesty.” The politeness felt paper-thin. “Though one might wonder if it fully… engages… with the underlying harmonic structure?”

‘Engages’? It’s a tune, not a debate opponent! Lucifer thought irritably. “I believe,” he said stiffly, “that its clarity provides a necessary focal point against the… complexity below.” He played another, slightly more embellished phrase.

“Ah, that trill,” Alastor noted, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “While possessing undeniable… energy… does it perhaps slightly… detract… from the established mood here?” He pointed with the pencil to a specific chord on the manuscript. “And this voicing you suggested earlier? It feels rather… crowded, don’t you think? Less is often more, Sire.”

Lucifer gritted his teeth. Trying to convey artistic vision through this filter of forced civility was maddening. “It’s not crowded, it’s rich! And it's not supposed to resolve immediately! It creates anticipation!" Lucifer argued, leaning closer to peer at the notes Alastor was scribbling. "No, look, the stress should be on the next beat, like this—" Frustrated by the difficulty of explaining verbally through the curse's filter, Lucifer reached across Alastor towards the manuscript book, aiming for the pencil to demonstrate his point directly.

At the same exact moment, Alastor lowered his hand toward the page. Their hands connected – Lucifer's landing squarely on top of Alastor's.

An electric jolt seemed to pass between them. Everything stopped – the music debate, the slight movements, even, it felt, their breathing. The air grew thick and silent, punctuated only by the sudden, sharp crackle of static flaring around Alastor. Lucifer stared down at their joined hands for a stunned heartbeat, then his gaze flew up to meet Alastor’s. Those red eyes were wide, surprised, momentarily stripped of their usual calculating amusement. They held that locked gaze for a suspended second, the unexpected contact creating a bubble of charged awareness around them. That same dizzying sense of confusion from the afternoon – the shocking lack of repulsion when they were tangled together – flickered through Lucifer’s mind, potent and disorienting.

Then the bubble popped. With a sharp gasp that tore through the silence, Lucifer snatched his hand back as if Alastor's skin had physically burned him. He scrambled backward slightly on the bench, turning his head away so forcefully his neck cracked, face instantly engulfed in a tidal wave of golden blush. "Pencil!" he choked out, voice high-pitched with panic and embarrassment. "Sorry! Reaching for the— the pencil! My bad!"

Alastor blinked, his smile freezing back into its default rigid curve after that momentary lapse into shock. The static fizzled out abruptly. He calmly placed his hand back onto the piano keys with deliberate composure, though perhaps his movements were a fraction stiffer than usual. The air between them, however, remained thick with unresolved awkwardness.

“Right,” Alastor cleared his throat again, unnecessarily. “Perhaps… a simpler chord progression to start?” He played a few tentative chords, eyes fixed firmly on the keys.

Lucifer nodded mutely, repositioning the accordion on his lap. He tried to play along, focusing intently on the movement of his fingers, on the sound, on anything but the demon sitting entirely too close beside him. He needed to see if Alastor approved of the harmony he was attempting, so he risked a glance sideways. Alastor turned his head slightly at the same moment, and their eyes met for less than a second before Lucifer snapped his gaze back down to his instrument, cheeks flushing hotly again.

“That… works,” Alastor commented, seemingly to the piano itself. “Though maybe starting on the third…?”

Lucifer tried again, adjusting the chord. He looked up automatically to check Alastor’s reaction. Met red eyes again. Alastor immediately looked away this time, down at the manuscript. “Better,” Alastor stated to the page. “More… foundational.”

It continued like that for another ten agonizing minutes. Stilted musical suggestions, hesitant playing, and a series of increasingly awkward, near-instantaneous moments of eye contact that both demons broke off as quickly as humanly— or rather, demonically— possible. The earlier flow, already strained by the curse, had completely evaporated, replaced by a thick fog of pure, unadulterated awkwardness. Any creative progress was minimal at best.

Finally, after fumbling a simple accordion passage for the third time because he was too busy anticipating and trying to avoid the next inevitable accidental glance, Lucifer had had enough. He let out a sharp, frustrated sigh, the accordion bellows emitting a sad little wheeze.

“Okay! That’s it! Enough!” he announced suddenly, pushing himself up from the piano bench, maybe a little too forcefully. The abrupt movement caused Alastor to look up from the manuscript, genuine surprise finally cracking his carefully composed mask for a split second.

Lucifer resolutely kept his eyes fixed somewhere above Alastor’s head, refusing to meet his gaze directly. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to gather his composure. “Look, it’s… getting late,” he stated, glancing vaguely towards a non-existent clock on the wall. “And frankly, we’re both probably tired. Not exactly peak creative hours, you know?” He gestured dismissively towards the piano and manuscript. “Maybe it’s best we just… call it a night for now. Pick it up again tomorrow?”

Lucifer turned, ready to make a swift exit before the awkwardness could suffocate him entirely.

"Hold on, Sire." Alastor's voice stopped him. Lucifer paused, glancing back reluctantly. Alastor was still seated, pencil tapping softly, but his eyes held a calculating gleam. "Before you flee the scene entirely... maybe we should test our hypothesis?"

Lucifer frowned. "What hypothesis?"

"The one regarding dear Charlie's... enchantment," Alastor clarified, a dry edge to his tone. "We have managed to... coexist... for a significant duration this evening. Engaged in collaboration, even." He gestured vaguely between the accordion Lucifer still held and the piano. "I daresay it might have been sufficient. Let's ascertain if the affliction has lifted, shall we?"

Lucifer hesitated, then gave a weary sigh and a stiff nod. The thought of being free from saying nice things to Alastor was appealing, even if the test itself was dreaded. "Fine. Worth a shot. Go on then. Give it your best shot." He braced himself.

Alastor’s smile widened, sharp and predatory. He focused, clearly dredging up a particularly nasty sentiment. 'This evening spent enduring your uniquely grating presence is an experience I sincerely hope never to repeat,' his mind formulated. He opened his mouth, static crackling faintly—

"I must admit..." Alastor began, then paused, his smile faltering for a split second as the curse wrestled with his intent. The static spiked, then softened. "...tonight was unexpectedly pleasant…" He seemed to force the words out, his usual composure strained. He met Lucifer's eyes, a strange light flickering in their depths. "...having your company, Lucifer."

The name hung in the air between them. Lucifer felt a jolt, a warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with embarrassment this time. ‘He used my name... Why did that sound... so nice? Coming from HIM?’ A dark red flush crept up Alastor’s neck, mirroring the gold blooming again on Lucifer's cheeks.

And then, the most surprising thing happened. Alastor blinked, looking genuinely taken aback at himself. The wide, sharp grin didn't just falter; it softened. It reshaped into something smaller, less performative, almost… tender. The usual manic energy in his eyes gentled into bewildered warmth. He reached up a hand, almost touching his own cheek, stunned by the wave of genuine sentiment that had accompanied the curse-forced words. He actually meant it. The realization seemed to shake him to his core.

Lucifer stared, momentarily speechless, caught entirely off guard by the name, the compliment, and most of all, by the shockingly genuine, soft smile briefly gracing the Radio Demon's face. He found he couldn't even try to think of an insult. A small, hesitant smile touched his own lips in return.

"Yeah," Lucifer breathed, the word barely audible. "Me too."

The moment stretched, fragile and strange. Then, as if catching himself, Alastor’s expression snapped back, the wide, sharp grin slamming into place like a shield, though the red flush lingered. Lucifer’s small smile faded as reality reasserted itself.

"Yep," Lucifer added with a small sigh, looking away. "Still active, then..." The curse hadn't broken.

A beat of awkward silence. "Well," Lucifer cleared his throat, grabbing his accordion tighter. "Tomorrow, then." He didn't wait for a reply, turning quickly and heading for the door, eager to escape the confusing whirlpool of emotions in the Music Room.

Behind him, Alastor remained seated at the piano, watching him go, his smile wide and utterly unreadable once more, though his fingers perhaps trembled slightly where they rested on the keys.

The heavy door clicked shut, plunging the Music Room into a sudden, profound silence. Alastor stayed perfectly still for a long moment, gaze fixed unseeingly on the piano keys where his hand still rested.

‘Unexpectedly pleasant,’ his own absurd words echoed back to him. ‘Having your company, Lucifer.’ He’d actually said the King’s given name. And for a horrifying moment, he’d meant it.

He replayed the instant their hands had touched – the jolt, the shared stillness. He could almost recall the exact feeling of Lucifer’s fingers against his skin. And Lucifer’s eyes when they had locked with his… wide, startled gold with ruby, sparkling irises, momentarily stripped of their usual bluster, showing a flash of something confusingly vulnerable before he’d snatched his hand away. Followed by that quiet, breathless little agreement… “Me too.”

Alastor found his smile thinning slightly, the usual wide curve lessening as his brows drew together almost imperceptibly, a subtle conflict warring behind the usual facade. Why did that precise combination – the words, the touch, that look in Lucifer’s eyes, his quiet response – leave behind such a strange, persistent resonance? It was illogical. And centered entirely on the insufferable King of Hell. And stranger still… the thought of having to endure this collaborative farce again tomorrow, of seeing Lucifer walk back through that door… why did it provoke such a peculiar, disruptive fluttering sensation low in his stomach? Like trapped static building unwanted pressure. Utterly baffling.

He mentally blamed the unwelcome sensation on some poorly chosen soul he’d likely consumed earlier that hadn’t quite agreed with him. Or possibly, he conceded with internal distaste, it was merely the stress of this entire, deeply irritating situation. Nothing more, certainly.

Notes:

The next chapter, 'Fluffy Tails and Awkward Dinners', will be posted on Thursday! Thanks for reading!

Chapter 6: Fluffy Tails and Awkward Dinners

Alastor hadn't slept well. The previous evening's... interaction... in the Music Room had left a residue of baffling sensations. The jolt of that accidental touch, the unnerving sincerity in Lucifer's compliment about his playing, and most disturbingly, the echo of his own voice saying – and for a horrifying moment, meaning – that having Lucifer's company was "unexpectedly pleasant". Preposterous. It had to be this infernal compulsion Charlie had inadvertently placed upon them, twisting intended barbs into unsettling truths. Yet, the memory of Lucifer's wide, momentarily vulnerable eyes and his quiet "Me too" felt disturbingly... real. It was illogical, infuriating.

He needed coffee. Strong, black, bitter. Routine.

Pushing open the kitchen door, Alastor stopped. Lucifer. Hunched over the counter amidst a small disaster of coffee grounds and spilled water, glaring at an old-fashioned percolator like it was a personal rival.

A low chuckle, genuinely amused and thankfully unaffected by the curse (as it wasn't directed at Lucifer with malice), escaped him.

Lucifer spun around, startled, then flushed golden with irritation and embarrassment. " Whoa there! Didn't hear you approach at all!"

Alastor surveyed the scene. His mind instantly formulated several cutting remarks about the King's utter incompetence with simple machinery. He opened his mouth, intending to voice one. Instead, filtered by the block on negativity, what emerged was, "Having a bit of trouble there, Your Majesty?" The tone was drier, more observational than planned.

Lucifer slumped slightly. "This stupid thing…" He gestured vaguely. "Honestly, I usually just poof it into existence, you know? Magic. But I couldn't sleep much," he admitted, dropping his gaze. "Worried about the party. Charlie…" He sighed. "Figured keeping my hands busy might help."

Alastor watched him. The admission of using magic for everything, the worry for his daughter – it was surprisingly… unguarded. An impulse, detached from malice, surfaced. He could easily fix this. He intended to say something like, 'Obviously, you're incapable, so step aside,' but the spell intervened.

"Move aside," Alastor said, the words stripped of their intended condescension, sounding merely directive, perhaps even gentle. "Allow me."

Lucifer blinked, surprised by the neutral tone, and stepped back with a mumbled, "Yeah, okay."

Alastor efficiently cleaned the mess and set about making coffee. His own first, black, in his crimson "Oh Deer" mug. Then, observing Lucifer leaning wearily against the doorframe, he began preparing another. He reached into the cupboard and retrieved Lucifer's usual mug. It was a cheerful, bright yellow ceramic affair, featuring a rather jaunty-looking cartoon rubber duck proudly sporting a tiny black top hat. Below this dapper waterfowl, bold, slightly cheeky letters proclaimed: "This is ducking good." Alastor suppressed a flicker of amusement at the sheer silliness of the thing as he placed it on the counter. He proceeded to heat milk, whisking it expertly, adding a generous amount of sugar to the duck mug before pouring the coffee and topping it with foam and a sprinkle of cinnamon from a shaker on a nearby shelf. He knew the preferences; he noticed things. Acting on that observation without a layer of accompanying scorn felt… peculiar.

He slid the finished mug across the counter towards Lucifer.

Lucifer looked down astonished at the familiar yellow mug, then looked up quickly at Alastor's unreadable expression. He was struck by the baffling gesture itself – Alastor making coffee for him, and presenting it with such quiet confidence. He hesitantly picked up the mug, the warmth familiar in his hands. He lifted it and took a cautious sip, eyes still wary.

His eyes widened purely in pleasure as the taste registered. It was perfect. Exactly right. Sweet, milky, warm. Made by Alastor. Surprise flashed across his face again, directed solely at the unexpected quality and the baffling care taken. "Wow," he breathed, taking another gulp, the pleasant warmth spreading through him. "This is... really good." A genuine warmth colored his cheeks. He met Alastor's gaze directly, gratitude overriding his confusion. "Thank you, Alastor."

The direct thanks, the use of his name, landed with unexpected weight. Alastor felt the faint crackle of static – his own reaction to the sincerity, unfiltered by the spell. His mind instantly supplied several sharp dismissals to quell the unexpected warmth of the moment, but as he opened his mouth, the simple truth emerged instead.

"You're welcome, Lucifer."

Silence settled for a moment. Then, catching each other's eye, small, hesitant smiles bloomed on both their faces simultaneously. Real smiles, not their usual masks – a brief, quiet connection hovering in the coffee-scented air.

The shared, hesitant smiles lingered perhaps a second too long before fading, leaving a residue of awkward warmth in the room. Alastor cleared his throat, a faint staticky sound, seemingly resetting the atmosphere back towards something resembling normalcy. His usual wide grin was firmly back, though maybe the air around him felt a fraction less sharp.

“Well then,” he began, his voice regaining its smooth, measured cadence as he glanced from Lucifer back towards the messy counter. “Regarding your earlier need for distraction from party anxieties…” He paused, stating his own plans simply. “I was actually intending to prepare a batch of beignets shortly. A taste of New Orleans tradition.” He then seemed to connect Lucifer’s predicament with his own activity, tilting his head slightly as he regarded the King. “I find the process quite effective for occupying restless hands. If you are, indeed, still seeking such occupation, perhaps you would care to lend your assistance?”

Lucifer blinked, startled. Everyone knew Alastor didn’t tolerate anyone interfering when he was working at the stove. To be openly invited to assist him? The offer, phrased with Alastor’s characteristic precision yet lacking any discernible condescension or possessiveness, felt utterly bizarre. Significant, somehow. And definitely weird. But the distraction was undeniably welcome. “Oh!” He straightened up again. “Beignets. Right. You’re making them.” He nodded, processing the surprising invitation. “And… assistance? Yes. Uh, sure. I can assist.”

“Excellent,” Alastor replied with a brisk nod, seemingly unperturbed, perhaps even pleased by the easy agreement. He turned towards the main cooking area. With smooth, economical movements, he unbuttoned his sharp red suit jacket, slid it off, revealing the waistcoat and neatly pressed shirt beneath, folded the jacket precisely once, and hung it carefully over the back of a nearby kitchen chair. He then turned towards where the aprons hung.

And it was in that moment, as Alastor turned his back partially towards him, that Lucifer’s eyes caught an unexpected detail. Something small, dark, and distinctly out of place just above the waistband of Alastor’s tailored trousers, slightly offset to one side.

It flicked.

Lucifer stared, his brain taking a second to process the impossible sight.

A tail.

Not a grand, draconic tail, nor a whip-thin demonic one. No, this was small, neat, and undeniably deer-like. It was covered in the same deep crimson fur as his hair, ending in a slightly paler, distinctly fluffy white tuft at the very tip. It gave a slight, almost involuntary twitch as Alastor reached for an apron hook.

He has a tail! The thought slammed into Lucifer’s mind, momentarily erasing all thoughts of coffee, beignets, or awkwardness. A fluffy one! Just like his ears… Fluffy ears, fluffy tail. His gaze locked onto the surprising appendage, tracking its subtle movement. He was completely transfixed by this sudden, strangely intimate, and utterly perplexing reveal of another hidden facet of the Radio Demon.

Alastor, apparently oblivious to the intense scrutiny directed at his newly revealed appendage, straightened up, having secured a simple, dark apron around his waist. He turned back towards the main counter, scanning the ingredients already present and those still needed. The faint twitch of the crimson and white tail settled as he focused on the task at hand.

“Right then, beignets,” Alastor announced, his voice regaining its usual confident, slightly performative tone. He pulled a large mixing bowl seemingly from nowhere with a subtle shimmer of static. “A straightforward affair, but precision is key.”

Lucifer snapped his attention back, guiltily tearing his gaze away from Alastor’s lower back. ‘Get a grip!’ He silently berated himself. ‘It’s just a tail. A weirdly adorable, fluffy deer tail. Stop staring!’ He tried to focus on the ingredients, on the large bowl, on anything else.

“Flour,” Alastor stated, gesturing towards a large canister on a shelf slightly behind Lucifer. “If you would be so kind as to pass it over?”

Lucifer nodded mutely, reaching for the canister, but his eyes involuntarily flickered back towards Alastor as the demon bent slightly to check something under the counter. The tail gave another little flick. So fluffy…

“Lucifer?” Alastor prompted again, straightening up and glancing over his shoulder, noticing Lucifer hadn’t moved with the flour. “The flour?” His tone remained polite, patient even, though perhaps a micro-expression of faint confusion touched his features.

“Right! Sorry! Flour!” Lucifer fumbled slightly with the heavy canister, his mind still half-occupied with the fluffy crimson-and-white image. He managed to get it off the shelf.

Alastor turned back fully towards the counter space between them, holding out a hand expectantly for the canister. He needed to measure it out. Seeing Lucifer still seemed slightly out of it, he repeated the request a third time, taking a half-step closer. “Lucifer, the flour, if you please?” he asked, his tone smooth but carrying an edge of strained patience.

As Alastor spoke, that damnable fluffy tail gave another distinct, distracting flick. Lucifer's frustration spiked. He was trying to focus, trying to just hand over the stupid flour and get through this awkward cooking session, but how could he when that... that thing kept twitching right in his peripheral vision?! It was infuriating! He opened his mouth, fully intending to snap, something along the lines of, "Will you stand still for one damn second, you irritating—"

WHAM. It felt like hitting a magical wall mid-sentence. The curse slammed down, blocking the intended negativity, the rising insult directed squarely at the demon fidgeting before him. But the energy behind the outburst had to go somewhere. And the core reason for his distraction, the actual thought swirling beneath the frustration sparked by the movement (and yes, by the tail itself) was... well, it was how surprisingly appealing the damned thing looked.

So, instead of the intended frustrated insult about Alastor's movement, what burst out of Lucifer’s mouth, completely unfiltered and slightly high-pitched, was:

“You have a really BEAUTIFUL, SUPER-FLUFFY tail! Sorry— It just— it keeps twitching and I can't think straight and— oh Hell, what I wouldn't give to PET it!”

The words hung in the suddenly dead air of the kitchen.

Lucifer froze instantly, the flour canister halfway between the shelf and Alastor. His eyes went wide with sheer, unadulterated horror at what he’d just said. A violent wave of golden blush surged up his neck and face, hotter and more intense than any before. He might have even slapped a hand over his own mouth, though the words were already out, echoing in the stunned silence. ‘Did I just say that?! Out loud?! TO HIM?!’

Across the small space, sheer bewilderment and astonishment washed over Alastor's features, shattering his usual composure for a crucial instant. His perpetual grin faltered dramatically, his eyes widened in pure, uncomprehending shock. His head gave a sharp, incredulous tilt, as if he literally could not believe what he had just heard. The faint static around him surged wildly.

"W-WHAT?!"

The single word didn't glide out smoothly; it exploded outwards with a sharp burst of static, completely losing its usual radio-host modulation, sounding almost choked with sheer, unadulterated astonishment. It was perhaps the single most unguarded sound Lucifer had ever heard him make.

And for Lucifer, that raw, bewildered utterance was the final nail in his coffin of mortification. Panic, absolute and electrifying, took over.

"Oh! Gotta go!" he yelped, dropping the flour canister which landed with a soft thump, sending a puff of white powder onto Alastor's shoes. "Left the— the ducks! In the tub! With the water running! VERY IMPORTANT! Bye!"

And with that spectacularly flimsy excuse, Lucifer turned and fled the kitchen at top speed, disappearing through the swinging door like a bat out of... well, Hell.

Alastor stood frozen for another second amidst the settling flour dust, the echo of Lucifer's nonsensical excuse, and the lingering shock of the initial comment. The look of raw astonishment slowly receded, smoothed over as the wide, fixed smile forcibly reasserted itself, locking back into place like a shield. He blinked, then slowly glanced down at the flour on his shoes, then perhaps vaguely towards his own lower back where the offending tail presumably still was.

"...Running water?" he murmured, the static returning around him, buzzing with lingering confusion beneath the newly restored facade of composure.

 

---

 

Lucifer spent the remainder of the day in self-imposed exile. He barricaded himself in his workshop, surrounded by the silent, judgmental stares of hundreds of rubber ducks (pointedly ignoring the crimson, antlered one on the shelf). Every time the mortifying compliment replayed in his head – beautiful, super-fluffy tail! – a fresh wave of heat engulfed his face. He tried tinkering, sketching designs for Charlie’s party decorations (a task he was supposed to be doing with Alastor, adding another layer of dread), but his focus was shot. He kept picturing Alastor’s initial, stunned "W-WHAT?!" followed by the sheer panic that had sent him fleeing the kitchen. He definitely skipped lunch, the thought of accidentally running into the Radio Demon in a common area too horrifying to contemplate. Once, he thought he heard the faint crackle of static down the hall and immediately ducked back behind his workbench, heart pounding. This was Hell, quite literally.

As evening approached and the ambient sounds of the hotel shifted towards dinner preparations, a knock echoed on his workshop door. Lucifer froze.

"Dad?" Charlie's voice, gentle but persistent, came through the wood. "Dad, are you in there? Are you okay?"

Lucifer scrambled to look presentable, smoothing his hair. "Fine, Char Char! Just fine! Busy, you know, planning!" he called back, trying to inject false cheer into his voice.

The knob turned; she must have known he wouldn't lock her out. Charlie peeked in, her brow furrowed with genuine concern. "Busy? Dad, you missed lunch, and Angel said he hadn't seen you around all afternoon. I was getting worried." She stepped inside, her hopeful smile faltering slightly as she took in his clearly flustered state. "Everyone's heading down for dinner. Alastor made his jambalaya tonight! Please come down? Please? For me?"

Hearing that Alastor had cooked and seeing the kicked-puppy eyes deployed with masterful precision made refusal impossible. Lucifer’s resolve crumbled. He couldn't stay hidden forever, not from Charlie. And he had to admit, Alastor's jambalaya was annoyingly good. "Okay, okay, sweetie," he sighed, resigning himself to his fate. "Just... give me a second."

He followed Charlie down towards the main dining hall, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach with every step. He mentally rehearsed neutral conversation topics, tried to project an aura of normalcy, and desperately hoped Alastor would be seated at the opposite end of the table. Or maybe absent entirely. ‘Please, let him be absent.’

No such luck.

As they entered the dining room, Lucifer’s gaze immediately scanned the long table. Vaggie was talking quietly with Cherri Bomb. Niffty was meticulously arranging cutlery at lightning speed. Husk was already slumped in a chair nursing a drink. And there, holding court near the center, looking infuriatingly composed and chatting easily with a nervous-looking demon guest, was Alastor. His smile was wide and firmly in place, giving no hint of the morning's baffling events.

And then Lucifer saw where Charlie was subtly guiding him with an encouraging hand on his back. Of course. In her infinite, misguided wisdom, she had somehow orchestrated things so that the only logical empty seat left at the bustling table was the one right next to Alastor.

‘Charlie? Seriously? Again?!’  Lucifer groaned internally, shooting his daughter a look that was quickly masked as he plastered on a strained smile. He sat down stiffly, acutely aware of the crimson-clad demon beside him, and immediately focused all his attention on unfolding his napkin with painstaking care. Avoid eye contact. Avoid conversation. Survive.

Alastor, ending his conversation, turned slightly as Lucifer sat. His red eyes flickered over Lucifer for a moment, sharp and analytical, before his smile widened almost imperceptibly. He gave a small, almost mocking nod of acknowledgement, then turned his attention towards the head of the table where Charlie was taking her seat. But Lucifer could feel the weight of his presence, the low hum of static, and knew he was being observed. Alastor, for his part, was indeed observing. The King’s deliberate avoidance, the stiff posture, the refusal to meet his gaze... it was a stark contrast to the morning's bizarre outburst and the previous night's unexpected connection. It was... perplexing. And, Alastor admitted internally with a flicker of annoyance, rather irritating.

Meanwhile, further down the table...

"Psst! Husky!" Angel Dust leaned conspiratorially towards Husk, nudging him with an elbow. "Get a load of Smiles. Totally giving Short King the fuck-me eyes."

Husk took a long swig of his drink, glancing disinterestedly towards the center of the table. "Fuck-me eyes? Alastor?" He scoffed, wiping his mouth with the back of his paw. "Those ain't fuck-me eyes, Angel, those are 'I'm gonna wear your skin while broadcasting your screams' eyes. Get real."

"Nah, you're blind," Angel insisted, gesturing subtly. "Look at him! All intense! Plus, remember yesterday? That freaky tangle-up game? And Niffty swore they were practically making kissy faces at breakfast!"

"That was for Charlie," Husk grumbled, rolling his eyes dramatically. "And he's probably just messing with the guy's head."

"Wanna bet?" Angel grinned, his gold tooth flashing. "Fifty bucks says they're fucking within the party day."

Husk's ears instantly perked. His eyes sharpened, the boredom vanishing. Fifty bucks? On them? The gamble itself was almost irresistible, never mind the odds. He considered it, a slow, calculating look dawning. "You're on."

"Ooh, betting!" Cherri Bomb leaned over from Husk's other side, eyes gleaming. "On Red Pimp and Apple Boy finally doin' the nasty? Fuck yeah, count me in! Put me down for seventy-five bucks he tries something creepy first and gets blasted across the room!" A small, discreet betting pool, now involving actual cash and vulgar predictions, began to form under the table, fueled by cheap booze and demonic boredom.

Dinner progressed under a cloud of thick, awkward tension localized entirely around Lucifer and Alastor. Lucifer focused intently on his jambalaya (it was good, damn it), occasionally mumbling responses to Charlie, who sat opposite them, beaming with determined optimism. Alastor ate with his usual eerie precision, occasionally making polite, neutral conversation with others nearby, but Lucifer felt his gaze periodically flicking back towards him.

It was during a lull that Charlie, ever the proactive manager, looked between them brightly. "So! Dad, Alastor! How are the party plans coming along? Made any progress on the decorations? Or... the duet?"

Lucifer nearly choked on a piece of andouille sausage. Alastor, who had been subtly watching Lucifer studiously ignore him while scraping the bottom of his bowl, was caught momentarily off guard by Charlie's direct question. His focus snapped back to her, but not before a slight delay.

"Eh?" Alastor responded, the sound flat, confused, utterly unlike his usual smooth responses. He blinked, recalibrating. "Ah, the preparations. Yes. We are... planning."

Lucifer stared fixedly at his bowl, wishing he could sink through the floor. Down the table, Angel Dust, who had been watching the exchange intently, gave Husk a sharp nudge in the ribs. When Husk shot him an irritated glance, Angel simply gave him a slow, smug grin and a pointed look towards Alastor, as if to say, 'See?' Husk just grunted dismissively and took another long drink, resolutely unimpressed.

Lucifer couldn't take it anymore. The proximity, the memory of the tail comment, Alastor's unnerving presence (and delicious cooking), Charlie's hopeful gaze, the underlying tension – it was unbearable. Pushing his mostly empty bowl away, he mumbled quickly to Charlie, "You know, suddenly not feeling great, sweetie. Think I'll... just turn in early."

Before Charlie could protest too much, Lucifer was up and making a hasty retreat from the dining room, avoiding everyone's gaze.

Alastor watched him go, his smile fixed, but his eyes narrowed into sharp points. The deliberate avoidance all evening, the stark contrast to the morning... This abrupt flight only added to the puzzle. It required clarification. With unhurried, deliberate grace, he placed his napkin beside his plate. "Do excuse me," he murmured to the table at large, inclining his head slightly towards Charlie. "There appears to be a... loose end I must attend to."

He rose smoothly from his chair and followed the path Lucifer had taken.

As Alastor exited the dining room, Angel Dust practically vibrated with triumph. “Loose end?” he crowed softly to Husk, grinning ear to ear. "Oh, I bet it's a loose end he's gotta 'attend to'! Looks like someone owes me fifty bucks! Get ready to pay up, Whiskers!"

Husk merely watched Alastor’s retreating back with narrowed, impassive eyes. He took a slow, deliberate drag from his glass, utterly unfazed. “Following someone ain’t the same as fucking ‘em, dumbass,” he finally grumbled, setting his glass down with a soft thunk. He smirked mirthlessly. “He’s probably just going to twist the knife. Enjoy the little King squirming after whatever stupid shit he pulled this morning.” He reached for the bottle to pour himself another. “Bet’s still on.” Cherri Bomb cackled beside him, clearly thrilled by the high-stakes tension and eager to see how it would all blow up, one way or another. The betting pool remained very much active.

 

Notes:

Betting is open! ;)

The next chapter, 'A New Understanding,' will be posted on Monday. Thanks for reading!

Chapter 7: A New Understanding

Lucifer practically bolted down the corridor, the plush carpet muffling his frantic steps. Dinner had been excruciating. That entire day had been excruciating, ever since the… tail incident. He just needed to get back to his tower, lock the door, and maybe hide under a pile of ducks until this whole cursed party situation blew over. He could still feel the phantom heat of that golden blush on his cheeks, the memory of Alastor’s utterly bewildered “W-WHAT?!” echoing in his ears.

He risked a glance over his shoulder. No sign of—

A crimson figure materialized from the shadows just ahead, leaning casually against the ornate wallpaper that marked the transition between the hotel’s main structure and their private wings. Alastor. Of course. Lucifer’s stomach plummeted. He quickly fixed his gaze straight ahead, picking up his pace, pretending he hadn’t seen him.

“Lucifer.”

Alastor’s voice cut through the air, low and resonant, stripped of its usual performative cheer. Lucifer flinched but kept walking, feigning deafness. Almost there, just a few more yards to his elevator…

“Lucifer, don’t ignore me.” The voice was closer now, the faint crackle of static more pronounced.

Lucifer squeezed his eyes shut for a second, still power-walking. ‘Nope. Not happening. La la la, can’t hear you over the sound of my own impending doom’, he thought frantically.

A firm grip suddenly clamped down on his upper arm, halting him mid-stride. The touch sent an unwanted jolt through him, reminiscent of their accidental hand contact in the Music Room. He was spun around forcefully to face the Radio Demon.

Alastor stood mere inches away, his usual wide grin firmly in place, but his eyes held none of their typical amusement. They were narrowed, sharp points of crimson intensity fixed solely on Lucifer. The proximity was jarring, bringing back a dizzying flash of their tangled closeness during Charlie’s disastrous game.

“Let go of me, please,” Lucifer snapped, the polite word forced out by the curse as he tried to pull his arm free from the surprisingly strong grip.

“Not until you tell me,” Alastor’s voice was tight, controlled fury simmering just beneath the surface. “Why have you been avoiding me all day? Running from the kitchen, hiding away in your tower, fleeing dinner the moment I looked your way? What is the meaning of this?”

Lucifer finally yanked his arm free, rubbing the spot reflexively. He attempted a scoff, trying desperately to project annoyance rather than the mortification churning inside him. “Avoiding you?” He tried to say ‘It’s not about you’ but the words caught, twisted by the curse needing something less dismissive. “It’s… not necessarily about you,” he managed, the forced qualifier making him wince internally. He quickly tried to pivot, avoiding Alastor’s piercing gaze. “I’ve been busy. Important King-of-Hell business! Party planning, you know.” He attempted another jab, trying to think, ‘Unlike some people, I have actual duties,’ but again, the negativity hit a wall. What came out instead was a grudging acknowledgment: “…We both have responsibilities regarding this party, I suppose.”

Alastor’s smile tightened, the air crackling audibly now. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. The sheer, deliberate obtuseness, the blatant, poorly executed lie after the day’s obvious retreat – it ignited his temper. He opened his mouth, intending to lash out, to call Lucifer a pathetic coward, to demand the real reason for the humiliating flight after that bizarre compliment…

‘You spineless, duck-obsessed…’ the insult formed, sharp and venomous in his mind.

The curse slammed down. Hard. It twisted the anger, the accusation, the simmering frustration from the day’s perplexing interactions, searching for the underlying, positive kernel the spell demanded. What lingered beneath the fury? The confusion from the Music Room? The echo of Lucifer’s quiet “Me too”? The baffling vulnerability he’d glimpsed? The fear that he had somehow caused this sudden, inexplicable withdrawal?

Instead of the intended tirade, what stumbled out, sounding horrifically uncertain and tinged with a bewildered static, was:

“I… I’m afraid I did something wrong.”

The words hung in the corridor, utterly alien and shocking coming from Alastor. His own eyes widened slightly behind the fixed grin, a flicker of horrified confusion crossing his features as he processed the non-insult that had escaped him.

Lucifer froze mid-scoff. He stared at Alastor, momentarily speechless. Did he hear that right? Alastor – the smug, unflappable, ever-condescending Radio Demon – sounding… worried? Worried he’d done something wrong? The golden blush on Lucifer’s cheeks deepened, morphing from embarrassment into sheer, flustered confusion.

Alastor, the Radio Demon… was concerned? For him? The thought sparked, incredulous and strangely hopeful within him.

But the hope was quickly swamped by months of ingrained animosity and the sheer absurdity of the situation. Lucifer’s flustered confusion hardened back into defensive anger. He couldn’t afford to believe it, couldn’t let that vulnerability crack his own facade.

“No!” Lucifer snapped, shaking his head fiercely as if to physically ward off the implication of Alastor’s words. “I… I can’t afford to believe anything right now! That’s… that’s just the curse talking, Alastor! Don’t pretend otherwise!” He waved a dismissive hand, refusing to meet Alastor’s eyes directly. “I know you don’t mean that! It’s just twisting whatever nasty thing you really wanted to say into… into that!”

Alastor’s smile didn’t falter, but the faint static around him died down into a heavy silence. He tilted his head, his gaze steady and unnervingly calm. When he spoke, his voice lacked its usual radio filter for just a moment, sounding low and clear.

“Are you quite finished, Lucifer?” he asked quietly. Lucifer fell silent, taken aback by the lack of immediate retort. Alastor took a small step closer, forcing Lucifer to look up at him. “We both know that’s not how this works,” he continued, his tone devoid of mockery, holding only a weary sort of gravity. “The charade grows tiresome. This… compulsion… it extracts the things we attempt to hide, the sentiments buried beneath the vitriol. Not convenient falsehoods.” His eyes held Lucifer’s gaze intently. “We’ve suspected as much from the beginning, haven’t we? Despite our agreement to pretend otherwise.”

The directness of the admission, the dropping of the pretense they had both clung to, stunned Lucifer more effectively than any insult could have. The air crackled with unspoken tension, the weight of this acknowledged truth settling heavily between them. Alastor was right. Deep down, they had known, or at least suspected.

The fight visibly drained out of Lucifer. His shoulders slumped, the defensive anger replaced by a wave of weary resignation and returning mortification. He looked down at his own hands, unable to sustain Alastor’s gaze now that the flimsy shield of denial was gone.

“Then I screwed it up,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible, rough with self-reproach. “This morning… with the tail comment…” He risked a glance up, his cheeks flushing gold again. “It was stupid. Inappropriate. I probably ruined… whatever this fragile truce thing was.”

Alastor watched him, his expression unreadable for a moment behind the smile. Then, he gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. “Your observation regarding my… appendage,” he conceded, the word chosen with deliberate care, “was indeed unexpected. Startling, even.” He paused, holding Lucifer’s gaze. “But… coming from you…” Another brief pause, a flicker in his eyes Lucifer couldn’t quite decipher. “…No, Lucifer. It wasn’t offensive. Merely… perplexing.”

He seemed about to add something else, perhaps a barb to lighten the sudden sincerity, the familiar impulse to deflect kicking in. Lucifer saw the intent flicker in his eyes. ‘I realize you often put your foot in your mouth,’ Alastor clearly thought, aiming for a familiar teasing rhythm. He opened his mouth—

“I realize you often…” he began, but the curse snagged the intended insult. The static hitched. “…find I don’t mind your compliments, Lucifer,” the words finished, sounding startlingly genuine, stripped of the intended condescension.

A dark crimson flush crept up Alastor’s neck, matching the fiery gold that instantly bloomed anew on Lucifer’s cheeks. They stared at each other for a beat, both momentarily poleaxed by the raw honesty forced out by the spell. Lucifer held Alastor’s gaze, the fiery ruby in his own eyes softening. A tiny, almost hesitant smile touched his lips first, hesitant, yet filled with a dawning sense of wonder as he truly looked at the flustered demon before him. Seeing that unguarded, amazed smile directed solely at him, Alastor’s composure seemed to crack further. The crimson flush on his neck deepened, and he abruptly broke eye contact, turning his gaze sharply towards the wall, embarrassed.

Alastor looking away didn’t diminish the wide, wondering smile that had bloomed on Lucifer’s face; if anything, the sense of wonder deepened. The vulnerability of the moment spurred him on. Hesitantly, needing some kind of confirmation after everything, he asked softly, “So… friends, then?” He awkwardly extended his hand between them, a gesture seeking to confirm the startling shift in their dynamic.

Alastor glanced down at the offered hand, his smile perhaps tightening for a fraction of a second as he processed the word, the gesture. Then, slowly, he reached out. His fingers closed around Lucifer’s, not in a crushing grip or a formal shake, but with a surprising gentleness. He met Lucifer’s hopeful, unwavering gaze again.

“I suppose so,” Alastor confirmed, his voice regaining a touch of its smoothness. “Friends, Lucifer.”

He held the handshake for a moment longer, a silent acknowledgment passing between them, before gently releasing Lucifer’s hand. It was only then that Alastor broke the remaining tension, clearing his throat with a soft static crackle as he regained a semblance of his usual composure, though the flush lingered. His smile smoothed back into its familiar curve.

“Well then,” he said, his voice regaining its broadcaster’s rhythm, though perhaps a shade softer than usual. “Since the air has been… cleared… perhaps we should return to the task at hand? Our duet still requires completion.” He gestured vaguely down the corridor towards the main part of the hotel where the Music Room lay. “Shall we?”

Lucifer hesitated for only a second, the warmth from the brief handclasp still tingling, but the offer felt like a lifeline, a path back to something manageable. He gave a small, jerky nod, unable to quite meet Alastor’s eyes again just yet after the other demon had initiated the break.

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “Okay. The music.”

Together, they turned and started walking down the corridor towards the Music Room. Side-by-side, so close they were almost touching, leaving the echoes of their confrontation, unexpected confessions, and fragile new understanding hanging in the air behind them.

The atmosphere in the Music Room was entirely different this time. Gone was the thick fog of awkwardness and aborted glances that had plagued their first attempt. Now, seated again side-by-side on the extended piano bench, a quiet focus settled over Lucifer and Alastor, fueled by their newfound accord.

Lucifer played a passage on his accordion, a melody that felt less forced, more intuitive this time. He glanced towards Alastor, not with apprehension, but seeking collaboration. Alastor, watching Lucifer’s fingers move, responded with a subtle nod, his own hands gliding over the piano keys, weaving a complex harmony beneath Lucifer’s tune. It clicked. The sounds, one bright and energetic, the other dark and intricate, didn’t clash; they complemented each other, creating something unexpected and surprisingly engaging.

They worked like that, the focused periods of musical creation punctuated by a surprisingly relaxed ease. Between intricate passages and careful notation, Lucifer, seeming genuinely more comfortable in Alastor's presence after their talk, let his natural chattiness and humor surface. He interspersed the work with observations, quick jokes, and anecdotes that, filtered perhaps slightly by the lingering magic, filled the quiet moments. Alastor, in turn, responded with dry wit or brief, amused reactions rather than his usual dismissiveness. Mistakes that might have previously caused tension now often led to shared, unexpected chuckles before they quickly reset and found the correct harmony. They passed melodies back and forth, building layers, finding harmonies, the process marked by curse-free discussions of chord progressions and tempo. The air hummed, not with static or overt tension, but with the energy of this comfortable, collaborative rhythm – a stark contrast to every interaction they'd had before.

Finally, Alastor played the concluding chords on the piano, rich and resonant, while Lucifer held the final note on his accordion, letting it fade slowly into the quiet room. Silence fell. They both looked at the completed manuscript lying open, then at each other. A shared look of faint surprise, and perhaps undeniable satisfaction, passed between them. It was… actually good.

"Wow," Lucifer breathed, looking genuinely impressed at the manuscript, a broad smile lighting up his face. "That... actually didn't turn out half bad."

Alastor inclined his head, his own smile holding a hint of genuine satisfaction as he surveyed their work. "Indeed."

Lucifer gathered his accordion, standing up from the bench. "See you tomorrow, Alastor!" he said, the farewell feeling surprisingly natural.

Alastor also rose, gathering the manuscript carefully. "See you tomorrow," he echoed, his voice smooth. "Goodnight, Lucifer."

 

---

 

Later, back in the quiet solitude of his workshop, the harmonious energy of the music session still lingered around Lucifer. He felt tired, but it was a satisfying exhaustion. More than that, he felt… lighter. For the first time in longer than he cared to admit – certainly since Lilith’s departure had plunged him into a deep, listless apathy – he felt a flicker of something resembling genuine motivation. A strange buzz of energy that seemed to hum beneath his skin, chasing away the familiar grey fog of his long depression.

What was it? Working with Charlie always lifted his spirits, but this felt different. Collaborating with Alastor, actually creating something good together, punctuated by easy banter… it had been surprisingly… invigorating. And then their conversation in the corridor. The raw honesty. The handshake. Friends.

He leaned back against his workbench, a thoughtful expression on his face. Was this what it felt like? This strange buoyancy, this quiet sense of purpose? He almost felt… dare he even think it? Happy? The thought felt foreign, tentative, like trying on clothes that hadn’t fit in centuries. He couldn’t quite pinpoint the source of this profound shift, attributing it vaguely to the success of the music and the relief of clearing the air with Alastor, oblivious to the deeper current pulling him towards the Radio Demon.

His gaze drifted towards the shelves laden with his duck creations. It landed, inevitably, on the one tucked slightly behind the others – the vibrant red one, with its tiny antlers and unnervingly wide grin. The Alastor-duck.

He reached out and carefully picked it up, turning the small figure over in his hands. He remembered the sheer mortification he’d felt upon creating it. He thought of the tail comment, the burning embarrassment, and then Alastor’s unexpected reassurance: ‘Not offensive. Merely… perplexing… I find I don’t mind your compliments, Lucifer.’

He looked down at the crimson duck again. It was absurd. It was mortifying. But holding it now, after everything that had happened, it felt less like a symbol of his own confusing lapse and more like… an acknowledgment. A tangible representation of the utterly bizarre, yet undeniably real, shift in their dynamic. Friends. He smiled, the thought settling more comfortably this time. They were friends now. And friends… well, sometimes friends gave each other absurd, meaningful little gifts. Especially when one friend felt strangely compelled to offer something personal, perhaps as a silent apology for earlier awkwardness, and as a way to solidify this unexpected connection.

Taking a deep, steadying breath that felt full of this new, unfamiliar optimism, Lucifer closed his hand around the small, crimson duck. He wouldn’t hide it away again. He knew what he had to do.

 

 

Notes:

The next chapter, 'A Stroll Through Hell,' will be posted on Thursday. Thanks for reading!

Chapter 8: A Stroll Through Hell

Angel Dust slouched at the dining table, idly stirring his coffee and trying very hard not to look like he was watching the doorway. Beside him, Husk was already nursing something amber in a rocks glass, his usual morning scowl firmly in place. Across the table, Vaggie looked like she hadn't slept, while Charlie vibrated with her typical morning optimism, reviewing some brightly colored flyers. Niffty was a blur beneath the table, presumably eradicating stray cockroaches with extreme glee.

Angel risked a glance towards Husk. Fifty bucks. That grumpy cat owed him fifty bucks, he could feel it. Last night, seeing Smiles stalk out after Short King… oh yeah, something had definitely happened. He just needed proof.

The main dining room doors swung open, and Lucifer walked in, already holding his signature yellow duck mug, steam faintly rising from it. Angel immediately straightened up, eyes narrowed, observing. The King of Hell looked… different. Less tense than usual, the perpetual frown lines around his eyes seemed softer. He paused, surveying the room with a slight smile.

A moment later, the doors swung open again. Alastor. His crimson presence filled the doorway, smile wide and sharp as ever. He swept his gaze across the room, an unreadable assessment.

And then, the impossible happened.

Lucifer turned as Alastor entered. Their eyes met briefly across the space. A nod. Not mocking, not challenging. Just… a nod. And Lucifer offered a small, genuine smile in return before heading towards the table.

Alastor followed suit. Angel held his breath. Charlie hadn't orchestrated anything this morning; the seating was haphazard. Husk hadn’t moved. Vaggie was next to Charlie. Cherri Bomb was loudly munching on something that looked suspiciously like a leftover explosive casing repurposed as a cereal bowl. There were plenty of open seats scattered around.

Lucifer, seemingly without a second thought, slid into the chair directly opposite Charlie. A moment later, Alastor, with unnerving grace, took the seat right beside him.

Voluntarily.

Angel’s jaw dropped. He whipped his head towards Husk, jabbing him sharply in the ribs with an elbow. Husk merely grunted, swatting his hand away without looking up from his drink.

But Angel couldn’t look away from the center of the table. Lucifer and Alastor weren't ignoring each other. They weren't radiating waves of mutual hatred. They were… talking. Quietly at first, Lucifer gesturing animatedly with his mug, Alastor leaning in slightly, his smile still present but somehow less predatory when directed at the King. Then, Lucifer said something, his shoulders shaking with a soft chuckle, and Alastor responded with a dry comment that made Lucifer laugh outright – a genuine, surprisingly light sound that echoed slightly in the room.

The effect on the rest of the table was instantaneous and profound.

Vaggie froze mid-sentence, her fork hovering halfway to her mouth, staring at the pair with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock mixed with deep suspicion. Charlie, predictably, beamed so brightly it was a wonder the lights didn’t dim, clasping her hands together under her chin, radiating pure, undiluted joy. Cherri Bomb choked on her breakfast, coughing loudly before staring with wide, disbelieving eyes and letting out a low whistle.

Niffty zipped out from under the table, momentarily pausing her hunt for cockroaches. She tilted her head, wide eye fixed on the laughing pair. "Ooh!" she chirped loudly, "The two big bads are getting along!" before giggling manically and diving back under the table after a fleeing insect.

Husk finally deigned to look up at the commotion. He watched Lucifer and Alastor converse for a long, silent moment, his expression utterly impassive. Then, he slowly, deliberately, rolled his eyes and took a very long drink.

Angel practically vibrated in his seat, unable to contain his glee. He leaned over, whispering loudly in Husk’s ear, "Pay up, Whiskers! Pay! Up! Told ya they were doing the horizontal tango!"

Husk just shot him a withering glare. "Chatting isn't fucking," he growled under his breath, though perhaps a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face before he resolutely ignored Angel again.

"Oh, Dad! Alastor!" Charlie chirped, unable to help herself. "It's just so wonderful seeing you two getting along so well this morning!"

Lucifer glanced at his daughter, his smile warm and enthusiastic. "Oh! Yes, sweetie, just running through some brilliant ideas I had for the decorations! Sparkle, pizzazz, maybe some automated duck fountains? And Alastor here is... providing valuable input," he added, glancing towards the demon with a surprisingly neutral, almost appreciative expression.

Alastor inclined his head smoothly, his smile losing a fraction of its usual sharpness as he addressed Charlie. "Progress is indeed being made, my dear," he chimed in, his voice lacking its usual condescending edge when discussing Lucifer's ideas. "Your father possesses a rather… potent creative energy. We are endeavoring to channel it effectively for the festivities."

The cheerful, almost normal exchange somehow made the situation even more bizarre for the onlookers. Angel Dust didn’t care about the details; he was already mentally spending his fifty bucks, already planning exactly how he was going to gloat. This was going to be fun.

As the breakfast chatter began to resume its normal (if slightly stunned) rhythm, Charlie practically skipped over to where Lucifer and Alastor were still seated, a clipboard overloaded with colorful notes clutched in her hands. Her smile was blindingly bright, aimed squarely at the two demons.

“Dad! Alastor! That was amazing!” she gushed, leaning slightly over the table between them. “Hearing you two talking and laughing just now, working together on the party plans – it’s everything I hoped for!” She beamed, conveniently ignoring the sheer awkwardness and underlying tension that had defined their interactions until very recently.

Lucifer managed a smile that felt only slightly forced this time. “Just trying to make your party perfect, sweetie.”

Alastor simply inclined his head, his own smile unwavering. “Merely fulfilling our assigned duties, my dear.”

“Exactly!” Charlie clapped her hands together. “And speaking of duties… I have a super exciting favor to ask! Since you two are working so well together now,” she beamed, “I was hoping you could handle two crucial commissions for the party today! First,” she tapped her clipboard excitedly, “I need someone to go down to ‘Sinfully Sweet Delights’ – you know, the ones who make those incredible sculpted cakes? I want to commission a cake from them shaped like a miniature version of the entire hotel! Can you imagine? It would be amazing publicity! They’re the best at detail work, and having you both go might ensure they prioritize our order and make it absolutely spectacular! And second,” she leaned in slightly, her voice full of excitement, “’Damnation Dishes Catering’ might still have an opening! You know how booking them guarantees all the big names will show up! Could you maybe stop by there too, see their operation, really charm them into taking us on? Having the King of Hell and the Radio Demon show interest should definitely make an impression!” She looked between them, eyes wide with enthusiastic hope. “Would you mind? For the party? It would be amazing!”

Lucifer raised an eyebrow slightly, glancing at the detailed notes on Charlie’s clipboard. “A miniature hotel cake?” he repeated. “Sweetie, you know I could just… poof one into existence, right? Perfectly detailed, zero fuss, probably done before elevenses.”

“I know, Dad, but that’s not the point!” Charlie insisted, leaning forward earnestly, her manager persona kicking in. “We need to do things properly! As the Hazbin Hotel, we should support other Hell-based businesses! Plus, using a famous place like Sinfully Sweet Delights gets people talking, it generates buzz, it’s good publicity! It shows we’re serious and connected!”

Lucifer and Alastor exchanged another glance. Charlie’s business logic, while enthusiastic, wasn’t entirely unsound, even if her primary motive was likely still getting them to spend time together. The errands remained… doable.

“A miniature hotel cake for publicity, huh?” Lucifer mused again, a small smile playing on his lips despite himself. “Alright, Char Char, if that’s what you want…”

“…then we shall secure the necessary arrangements,” Alastor finished smoothly. “Consider it handled.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” Charlie squealed, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. “You two are the best team!”

As Lucifer and Alastor made polite murmurs about preparing to leave, Vaggie, who had been watching the entire exchange with narrowed eyes, quickly grabbed Charlie’s arm and pulled her a few steps away, lowering her voice to an urgent whisper.

“Hon, are you sure about this?” Vaggie hissed, glancing nervously towards where Alastor was now standing, adjusting his coat. “Sending them out together? Into the city? After… everything?” Her gaze was sharp with mistrust. “Something’s weird, Charlie. Alastor doesn’t just change like this overnight. Him being… agreeable? It feels wrong. I don’t trust him.”

Charlie gently patted Vaggie’s hand, her expression softening but still radiating determined optimism. “Oh, Vaggs, relax!” she whispered back reassuringly. “It’s okay! They just needed a little push. See? They took my advice! They’re finally trying to get along, just like I asked. This is good! It shows progress! Letting them work together on their own will just help solidify things!” She beamed again, utterly convinced. “Trust me!” She then grabbed Vaggie’s other arm with renewed purpose. “Besides, we have our own important job! Those fabulous party posters aren’t going to hang themselves all over Pentagram City! Let’s grab the adhesive paste!”

Vaggie didn’t look convinced about Alastor, her frown deepening as she watched Lucifer and Alastor head towards the hotel entrance, but she allowed Charlie to pull her towards their own task, merely crossing her arms with a worried sigh.

 

---

 

Stepping out of the Hazbin Hotel’s relative sanctuary and onto the bustling, chaotic streets of Pentagram City felt like plunging into a different kind of noise altogether. Horns blared (some literally demonic horns attached to vehicles), indistinct shouting echoed from alleyways, and the air hummed with a discordant symphony of suffering, commerce, and desperation. Alastor navigated the throng with his usual unnerving ease, his crimson coat a sharp slash of color against the grimy backdrop, his smile fixed and unreadable.

Lucifer walked beside him, trying to match his stride but feeling distinctly out of place. He kept closer to Alastor than he probably would have weeks ago, the newfound accord from their corridor conversation providing a strange, unspoken anchor amidst the sensory overload. He found himself looking around, truly looking, in a way he hadn’t in… well, centuries, probably.

“Wow,” Lucifer murmured, glancing up at a garishly lit billboard advertising some kind of soul-binding contract service. “It’s certainly… vibrant out here. Been a while since I just walked around like this.”

Alastor tilted his head, his curiosity piqued, though his smile didn’t change. “Oh? And why is that, Your Majesty? One would assume the ruler of this domain might take a more active interest in its thoroughfares.”

Lucifer grimaced, shoving his hands in his pockets as they sidestepped a brawl spilling out of a nearby bar. “Yeah, well,” he sighed, a note of genuine bitterness entering his voice. “Turns out, after you give humanity the grand gift of free will, watching how spectacularly they choose to squander it… gets old. Every Sinner down here,” he gestured vaguely at the chaotic crowds with the red apple topping his cane, “every act of petty cruelty or pointless violence… it’s just a constant reminder of potential wasted. A gift thrown back in your face.” He kicked absently at a loose cobblestone. “Kind of puts a damper on wanting to take scenic strolls, you know?”

They walked in silence for a block, the sounds of the city swirling around Lucifer’s bitter admission. Alastor seemed to consider his words, tapping a clawed finger against his microphone cane.

“An interesting perspective,” Alastor finally drawled, his tone thoughtful rather than mocking. “But perhaps, Sire, you’re only admiring one facet of the gem.” He paused as they passed a crumbling theatre where surprisingly intricate, demonic-looking puppets were being advertised for a macabre show. “Free will,” Alastor continued, “isn’t solely about the capacity for failure and depravity. That’s merely the most… obvious outcome.”

He gestured subtly towards a Sinner meticulously tending a small, strange-looking potted plant with glowing blue flowers on a grimy windowsill above them. “It’s also the capacity for… novelty. For unexpected creation.” He glanced towards the hotel, far behind them now. “For loyalty, however misplaced. For striving against the odds, even when damnation is assured. Think of your daughter’s little project – pure, unadulterated free will attempting to defy the very nature of this place. Isn’t there entertainment, perhaps even value, in that struggle? In the choices made despite the darkness, not just because of it?”

Lucifer listened, surprised by the lack of derision in Alastor’s voice. He hadn’t expected… philosophy. Loyalty however misplaced? Striving against the odds? His mind immediately pictured Angel Dust, with his contradictory, exhausting efforts to be something more than what Valentino had made him. He thought of Husk, gruff and cynical to the core, yet undeniably there for Angel recently, offering support and stability in his own grumpy way. He followed Alastor’s gaze towards the glowing plant, then thought again about Charlie’s own relentless, seemingly impossible project right here in the hotel. Alastor had a point. He’d been so focused on the Fall, on the failure represented by Hell and its inhabitants, that maybe… maybe he had missed something. Hell was punishment, yes, born of a choice he still grappled with, but the Sinners living within it still made choices every day. Acts of creation, bizarre acts of kindness, strange loyalties, endless, determined struggles… It wasn’t all just mindless violence and misery.

Having reached this realization, Lucifer felt a genuine shift in his perspective. He glanced at the Radio Demon walking beside him, the usual sharp edges seeming slightly less pronounced. A small, real smile touched Lucifer’s lips. “You know… maybe you have a point, Alastor,” he admitted quietly, the words feeling surprisingly easy. “Maybe I’ve been a bit too focused on the… downside.” He offered a nod of acknowledgment. "Yeah, Charlie’s been helping me see that. Thanks for reminding me."

Alastor met his smile, his own grin widening, red eyes gleaming with dark amusement as his usual persona snapped back. “Ah, but mind you, Lucifer,” he added, his voice taking on a conspiratorial, staticky edge, “a splash of blood and gore now and then isn’t entirely without merit down here! A little violence certainly makes the eternity less monotonous, wouldn’t you agree? It has its positive aspects!”

Lucifer rolled his eyes dramatically, but couldn’t suppress a small smirk. Typical Alastor. “Right,” he drawled, though without any real heat this time. “The ‘positive aspects’ of gore. Duly noted.” Okay, maybe he could handle Alastor’s brand of philosophy after all.

They continued walking, turning a corner onto a slightly less chaotic street known for its artisan shops and heading towards the bakery Charlie had mentioned. Lucifer’s gaze scanned the strange wares displayed in the dusty windows as they headed towards the bakery. Then, something made him stop short, his eyes widening with sudden, intense interest.

There, in the window of a shop filled with bizarre antiques and repurposed infernal technology, sat a stunning vintage record player. It was crafted from a deep, polished red wood, gleaming under the dim shop lights. What truly captivated Lucifer, however, was the intricate engraving decorating its lid: a whimsical, yet elegant design mingling cheerful ducks with graceful, stylized fawns. Ducks and deer, carved together into the rich wood.

Lucifer leaned closer to the glass, completely forgetting the errands for a moment, an instant, inexplicable pull towards the object making his heart do a strange little jump. A wide, delighted grin spread across his face. He nudged Alastor lightly with his elbow, pointing excitedly towards the engraving. “Al!” he exclaimed, the nickname slipping out naturally in his sudden enthusiasm, “Look! It’s us!”

Alastor followed Lucifer’s pointed finger, his gaze settling on the record player. He took in the red wood, the unusual engraving, and the absolutely besotted expression on the King’s face. Lucifer’s direct, almost childlike delight, the easy use of the shortened name, and the surprisingly apt comparison were… noted. Very noted. Alastor filed the image – Lucifer’s utter captivation, the specific red record player with its ducks and fawns – away with keen interest. He even allowed a brief, almost imperceptible twitch of amusement to touch his own smile at Lucifer’s comment before regaining his composure.

Lucifer finally pulled his gaze away from the window, though the delighted smile lingered. “Okay, okay, focus,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head slightly as if clearing it, though he cast one last longing glance back at the record player before turning resolutely towards the bakery down the street.

Running errands in Pentagram City with Alastor turned out to be… surprisingly efficient, if slightly unnerving. Securing the services of ‘Damnation Dishes Catering’ involved less charming and more pointed negotiation, mostly from Alastor, whose polite inquiries carried an undercurrent of menace that had the head chef sweating profusely and agreeing to all of Charlie’s terms with remarkable speed.

Commissioning the cake at ‘Sinfully Sweet Delights’, located, as Charlie had indicated, on a bustling street bordering the eerily cheerful pastel facades of Cannibal Town, was a similar affair. The proprietor, a large demon with far too many teeth and frosting smudges on his apron, initially seemed overwhelmed by the presence of both the King of Hell and the Radio Demon discussing miniature hotel replicas. However, a few calmly worded suggestions from Alastor about the importance of timeliness and quality for such… high-profile clients ensured their order for the grand hotel-shaped cake was bumped to the absolute top of the list. Lucifer mostly tried to look regal and occasionally chimed in about wanting extra sparkle on the hotel’s miniature apple-themed spire, receiving wary but swift agreement from the baker.

Now, standing outside the slightly-too-sweet-smelling bakery, the chaotic energy of Cannibal Town humming just a block or two away, Lucifer felt a strange sense of accomplishment mixed with relief. They’d actually done it. Cooperated. Without (major) incident.

“Well, that’s done,” Lucifer said, adjusting the lapel of his coat. “Cake commissioned, caterers intimidated… Charlie will be thrilled.”

Alastor surveyed their surroundings, his gaze lingering towards the distinct architecture of Cannibal Town nearby. “Indeed,” he murmured. “And since our tasks are concluded and we find ourselves practically on her doorstep…” He turned his gaze back to Lucifer, a polite, almost inviting smile playing on his lips – different from his usual predatory grin. “We are quite near Rosie’s Emporium. Perhaps we should pay her a brief visit? I would be delighted to make the formal introduction.”

Lucifer blinked, taken aback. Alastor suggesting they socialize? Voluntarily? And with Rosie, one of the Overlords Alastor actually seemed to respect and consider a peer? This felt like a significant step beyond just agreeing to be “friends” in a corridor. It was an invitation, of sorts, into Alastor’s closely guarded circle. Before Lucifer could formulate a response, still processing the unexpected offer…

WHIIIRRRRRR.

A low, electronic humming sound cut through the street noise, growing rapidly louder. Both Lucifer and Alastor looked up simultaneously. Several sleek, black drones, emblazoned with the unmistakable bright blue ‘V’ logo of VoxTek Industries, descended rapidly from the smog-filled sky, hovering directly in front of them.

The central drone projected a flickering, larger-than-life image into the air between them. Vox’s smug, flat-screen face materialized, static buzzing around the projection, his digital eyes narrowed into mocking slits, a wide, unpleasant grin plastered across his screen.

“My, my, what do my eyes spy?” Vox’s synthesized voice boomed, dripping with condescension. “Or maybe I should say… what do my drones spy?” His digital gaze flicked dismissively over Alastor before settling on Lucifer with a fraction more attention. “Look what crawled out from under a rock – the dusty old Radio Demon himself.” His screen-grin widened as he focused back on Lucifer, affecting a tone that was perhaps meant to sound respectful but felt deeply insincere. “And… Your Majesty! Fancy seeing you out and about, especially keeping such… vintage company. Taking in the sights together? How positively… charming.”

Lucifer stiffened, annoyance flashing across his face, while Alastor’s smile merely tightened, the static around him beginning to hiss almost imperceptibly, his eyes narrowing dangerously at the flickering image of his rival.

Before either of them could offer a retort, the projected image of Vox crackled violently, pixelating for a second before dissolving into static and vanishing. The drones whirred, retracting slightly.

Then, with a sound like a short-circuiting television and a brief flash of glitchy blue light on the sidewalk just a few paces away, Vox materialized. Not a projection this time, but his physical form – sharp suit, flat-screen head displaying that same wide, unpleasant electronic grin, hands clasped behind his back in a posture of arrogant confidence.

He surveyed the two of them standing there, the King of Hell and the Radio Demon, side-by-side outside a pastry shop on the edge of Cannibal Town. His digital eyes seemed to gleam with malice and opportunity.

“Well, well,” Vox said, his voice smoother now, though no less mocking, carrying clearly in the street air. He took a slow step towards them. “It seems it’s time for proper introductions.”

 

Notes:

The next chapter, "Spirals Out of Control," will be posted on Monday. Thanks for reading!

Chapter 9: Spirals Out of Control

The air crackled, heavy with the unspoken threat hanging in Vox’s final words. Lucifer instinctively took a half-step back, his hand briefly hovering before him, ready to summon his power, eyes narrowed warily at the physically present Overlord. Beside him, Alastor went utterly still, the only sign of his fury the tightening of his grin to an almost painful degree and the low, menacing hiss of static that began to emanate from him like heat off asphalt.

Vox paid Alastor no immediate mind, his screen-face focused entirely on Lucifer with that unsettlingly insincere politeness. He executed a shallow, almost dismissive bow. “Your Majesty. While we’ve certainly been… aware of each other, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of a formal meeting in such… intimate circumstances.” His gaze flickered pointedly between Lucifer and Alastor.

Lucifer blinked at the screen-headed demon, utterly nonplussed. He genuinely had no idea who this flashy newcomer was. He tilted his head slightly, his expression blank. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone flat and devoid of recognition. “Should I know you?”

Vox’s grin flickered, a brief flash of digital confusion crossing his screen before resetting into forced confidence. He let out a short, synthesized chuckle, clearly assuming Lucifer just needed a little nudge. “Surely Your Majesty is familiar?” he said smoothly, gesturing to himself. “Vox. CEO of VoxTek Industries?” He waited, expecting the dawn of recognition.

Lucifer blinked slowly, his expression unchanging, as if the information simply wasn’t computing. He even tilted his head the other way, as if trying to place him from a different angle. “B…Box Tek?” he tried, the unfamiliar name sounding awkward on his tongue. “Vox…Tex? Nope. Still drawing a blank here, pal. Sorry.”

Vox’s screen started to display faint static bars at the edges. His smile became strained. “VOX!” he corrected sharply, his volume increasing. “V-O-X! Television?! The picture shows? My face is plastered across half the billboards in this city!”

Lucifer considered this, then shook his head slowly, his expression one of polite, almost pitying confusion. “Look, uh… Knox?” he said, voice laced with feigned helpfulness. “I really don’t keep up with… flickering billboards. Sounds terribly pedestrian. But perhaps my associate here could assist you?” He gestured towards Alastor with a flick of his wrist. “Alastor runs a quaint little radio program, you know. Maybe he could give you a spot? Help you get your… uh… ‘BoxTek’ name out there? Sounds like you could use the publicity!”

The suggestion – that he, Vox, the titan of Hell’s media, might need help from outdated radio – hit Vox like a physical blow. His screen went momentarily blank with shock, followed by a flicker of furious code. He seemed utterly speechless, processing the sheer, layered insult delivered with Lucifer’s oblivious air.

Before Vox could recover, Alastor intervened. He stepped smoothly forward, placing himself slightly between Lucifer and the sputtering Vox, throwing his head back slightly as a loud, rolling peel of laughter, crackling with static and dripping with pure, malicious glee, echoed down the street. He practically vibrated with unrestrained amusement, utterly savoring the moment.

“Oh, dear me, Vox,” Alastor purred once his laughter subsided, though his grin remained impossibly wide, stretched into a terrifying rictus of delight. “It seems His Majesty has impeccable taste!” he declared, gesturing towards Lucifer with a flourish before turning his cutting gaze back to Vox. “He clearly recognizes the enduring power and artistic merit of Radio as the superior medium, wouldn’t you agree?” His eyes gleamed. “To be not only unknown to the King, but then offered advertising assistance by that very medium… How utterly, exquisitely humiliating.” He let out another low, rolling chuckle that grated on Vox’s circuits. “Perhaps His Majesty does have a point. A little radio spot might just be the boost your fading relevance needs!”

That final combined humiliation – Lucifer’s dismissal amplified by Alastor’s gloating endorsement of radio’s “superiority” – finally broke Vox’s remaining composure. A deep, distorted electronic growl ripped through the air. His entire form crackled with violent blue electricity, sparks jumping across his sharp suit and arcing fiercely between his antennae. His screen flickered wildly, flashing static, error symbols, and glimpses of a furious crimson red. The graphic of his left eye swirled into a chaotic vortex. His rage, however, was now laser-focused directly on Alastor.

“YOU OBSOLETE, SMILING FUCK!” Vox roared, his voice a low, glitching snarl thick with technological fury. “Think this is funny?! I’ll tear that damned grin right off your smug fucking face and broadcast your pathetic screams across every goddamn network in Hell! YOU HEAR ME, YOU STUCK-UP PIECE OF SHIT?!”

Before the thoroughly, incandescently enraged Overlord could make good on his threats towards Alastor, Vox seemed to abruptly switch tactics, perhaps remembering his goal regarding the King. While Alastor braced to retaliate against Vox himself, Vox activated his plan B: controlling the bystanders.

"Attention valued citizens!" it purred. "VoxTek cares deeply about your mental and physical wellness! To combat daily stressors, VoxTek recommends engaging immediately in vigorous physical activity!" His digital eyes flickered briefly towards Alastor. "Remember, eliminating sources of archaic interference, like troublesome Radio Demons, contributes significantly to personal well-being and a stress-free environment!"

Then, focusing his power, intense blue sparks erupted around Vox and crackled fiercely across the drones, his own left eye spiraling. His voice dropped, becoming layered, powerful, seeming to echo unnaturally from multiple sources at once:

"TRUST. VOX."

The effect was immediate. Several nearby Sinners – including a hulking brute with boar-like tusks, a pair of twitchy, rat-like creatures, a gaudily dressed woman with snake hair – suddenly froze mid-stride. Their eyes glazed over, pupils replaced with faint, glowing, concentric dark spirals. Their expressions went blank, then twisted into mindless aggression. As one, they turned, shambling or lunging directly towards Alastor.

“Well now, this is a tiresome development,” Alastor murmured, his amused grin instantly sharpening into one of battle-ready alertness as the hypnotized attackers advanced. The static around him intensified, shadows beginning to writhe subtly at his feet. He readied his cane, clearly preparing to swat aside the nuisance.

This was Vox’s opening with Lucifer. “No need for Your Majesty to concern yourself with such… pedestrian pest control,” Vox said smoothly, stepping quickly to Lucifer’s side. He reached out and grabbed Lucifer’s arm just above the elbow. “Allow me to escort you away from the rabble. You and I have matters of real importance to discuss.”

Startled by the sudden grab, Lucifer turned his head, glancing back towards the fight with a perplexed frown. He saw Alastor already dispatching the first few hypnotized Sinners with contemptuous ease, a blur of crimson and shadowy tendrils easily handling the mindless assault. The Radio Demon clearly had the situation under control for the moment. Intrigued now, wondering what on earth this suddenly attentive TV Demon could possibly want with him, Lucifer didn’t immediately resist Vox’s insistent pull. He allowed himself to be steered several paces down the sidewalk, away from the scuffle, deciding to momentarily indulge the Overlord simply to see where he was going with this.

“Now, now, Your Majesty,” Vox continued, positioning himself so Lucifer was slightly shielded from the view of the fight, forcing the King’s attention. “I couldn’t help but overhear some chatter about this… party you’re throwing back at the hotel? A grand reopening, is it? Excellent initiative!” His screen displayed a graph showing upward trending lines. “But for promotion?” He leaned in conspiratorially, voice dropping. “Surely an event of this profile requires… a modern approach to guarantee success.”

He beamed, projecting pure corporate confidence. “Think bigger, Your Majesty! Think VoxTek! We can offer blanket coverage, targeted advertising across all platforms, holographic invitations, maybe even a live V-Cast of the event! We’ll make this party the most talked-about event in Pentagram City, maybe even all of Hell! Maximum reach, maximum impact.” He gestured confidently. “The only way to truly make waves in this day and age!”

Lucifer stared at the slick corporate presentation flashing momentarily on Vox’s screen, then back at the smug TV demon himself. He frowned, a different kind of confusion replacing his earlier cluelessness. Vox spoke as if the party was common knowledge, a done deal.

“Hang on,” Lucifer said slowly, pulling his arm free from Vox’s loosening grip now that the Overlord was focused on his pitch. “How do you even know about the party already? Charlie and Vaggie only just left the hotel to put up the posters…” He trailed off, genuinely perplexed. He was King, yes, but he hadn’t exactly broadcasted the hotel’s plans across all of Hell. He was blissfully unaware of Vox’s pervasive surveillance network and obsessive need to know everything, especially anything involving Alastor.

Vox merely chuckled, a condescending, glitchy sound. “Your Majesty, information is my business. Nothing important happens in this city without VoxTek knowing about it.” He leaned in again. “Which is why my offer is the only one that matters. So, what do you say? Let’s ditch the fossil and make this party truly broadcast-worthy.”

Lucifer’s expression hardened. The casual dismissal of Alastor – his friend, he reminded himself with a jolt – coupled with Vox’s oily attempt at manipulation, solidified his resolve. He straightened up, adopting a tone of cool dismissal that carried the weight of his royal authority, even if he rarely chose to wield it.

“Thanks for the… generous offer,” Lucifer replied, the politeness paper-thin. He made a point of finally pronouncing the name correctly, just to show he could when he wanted to. “Vox. But we already have promotional arrangements handled.” He gave a firm nod. “Alastor will be featuring the event extensively on his radio program. We anticipate excellent reach.”

He didn’t need to elaborate. Stating the existing plan, Alastor’s plan, was rejection enough. He saw the flicker of renewed fury cross Vox’s screen at the mention of radio being deemed sufficient.

Lucifer gave Vox a tight, final smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said curtly, “I believe my associate requires assistance with the… pest control.”

Without waiting for a reply, Lucifer turned sharply on his heel, pointedly dismissing the Overlord, and strode back towards the ongoing fight.

Alastor was handling the hypnotized Sinners with his usual deadly grace, shadowy tendrils lashing out, tossing demons aside like rag dolls, his grin fixed even as he dispatched Vox’s puppets. But there were still quite a few of them – a decent crowd drawn from the bustling street, all with those same blank, spiraling eyes, converging mindlessly on the Radio Demon.

Lucifer took in the scene in an instant. He saw the tell-tale concentric spirals in their eyes, recognized the puppetry for what it was. These weren’t attackers acting of their own volition; they were victims of Vox’s manipulation. Using overwhelming, destructive force – raining down hellfire, for instance – felt… disproportionate. Unnecessary. He wouldn’t grant Vox the satisfaction of collateral damage, nor needlessly obliterate souls that weren’t truly responsible.

He raised a hand, not wreathed in flame, but instead crackling with pure, incandescent golden energy. In mere seconds, Lucifer unleashed his power, not with lethal intent, but with overwhelming, targeted force.

A wave of immense kinetic energy slammed outwards. Several hypnotized Sinners were instantly launched backwards like cannonballs, colliding violently with Vox’s hovering drones. Metal screeched and shattered as the expensive machines smashed into pieces against the demons, sending both crashing to the pavement in a tangle of broken parts and groaning bodies.

Others were caught in focused blasts of force, sent flying meters away to slam hard against the asphalt or crack against the facades of nearby buildings with sickening thuds, effectively neutralized without being disintegrated. A few more found themselves suddenly pinned to walls by bands of shimmering golden light before slumping, unconscious.

The entire intervention took maybe five seconds. The immediate area around Alastor was suddenly clear, the remaining hypnotized Sinners either broken, unconscious, or too far away to pose an immediate threat. The street was abruptly filled with the sound of groaning demons, sparking drone wreckage, and a stunned silence from any non-hypnotized onlookers who had witnessed the King of Hell’s brief, terrifyingly efficient display of non-lethal power.

Alastor lowered his cane slightly, his smile  flickering with faint surprise as he surveyed the sudden calm and the dispatched bodies. He turned his head slightly towards Lucifer, a single eyebrow raised in silent, perhaps grudging, acknowledgment of the swift resolution.

Vox, meanwhile, watched his drones shatter and his hypnotized army collapse with a fresh wave of impotent fury surging through his circuits. This was not how this was supposed to go. His screen flashed a rapid sequence of error messages, his synthesized voice sputtering incoherently for a moment before he regained a semblance of control, though the fury vibrated through his very frame.

He shot a look pulsing with pure hatred towards Alastor, who met it with that infuriatingly wide, victorious grin.

“This isn’t over, Radio Demon!” Vox snarled, the sound glitching badly. “Enjoy your… fleeting relevance! VoxTek will bury you!”

With a final, violent crackle, Vox’s physical form dissolved into pure, chaotic blue electricity. The energy surged across the pavement with a loud ZAP, shooting up a nearby lamppost and vanishing instantly into Hell’s power grid, leaving only the faint smell of ozone and the sparking wreckage of his drones behind.

Alastor watched the lamppost flicker for a second where the electricity had entered, his smile widening further, sharp and deeply satisfied. He let out a soft, almost inaudible chuckle, a low hum of static underscoring his triumph. Utterly routed. Exquisite.

He turned then, his victorious amusement still radiating, ready to deliver some cutting remark to Lucifer about the intervention. Perhaps something along the lines of, ‘Quite the unnecessary theatrical display, Sire. Though I had matters well in hand.’

He opened his mouth, the familiar condescending tone prepared—and froze.

Now that the immediate threat was gone and the satisfying spectacle of Vox’s humiliation had concluded, Alastor’s full attention finally settled squarely on Lucifer. And he registered what his battle-focus and subsequent gloating had previously overlooked: the six magnificent angelic wings still unfurled behind the King.

They must have manifested when Lucifer unleashed that wave of golden power moments ago. Lucifer himself, now dusting off his coat sleeve with a slightly bemused expression following the confrontation, seemed completely unaware they were still out.

Alastor’s grin locked, the victorious amusement evaporating instantly, replaced by wide-eyed, stark surprise. The wings were immaculate, a breathtaking sight against the grimy backdrop of Pentagram City. The outer feathers were a pure, brilliant white, seeming to almost glow with their own soft light. But it was the underside, revealed in flashes as Lucifer shifted slightly, that caught Alastor's breath – a stunning, deep crimson lining the inside of each wing, a stark, almost violent contrast to the pristine white exterior. Faint, elegant traces of gold might have edged some of the primary feathers, but it was the shocking duality of divine white and Hellish crimson that truly arrested the eye. They were undeniably powerful, radiating a quiet divinity that felt utterly alien and deeply compelling in this domain of the damned.

Alastor stared, momentarily captivated. He’d caught a glimpse of them before, during their chaotic song, but seeing the physical manifestation now, so up close—the sheer, undeniable holiness of those wings up close, wings that had clearly just been used with such effortless, non-lethal force—it was something else entirely.

His mind scrambled to process, the intended sarcastic comment colliding violently with the pure awe the sight invoked. The curse latched onto that awe, twisting his intended dismissal into something raw and unfiltered.

Instead of the planned barb, what came out, his voice losing some of its smooth radio cadence, tinged with an unfamiliar hint of breathlessness and bewildered static, was:

“My word, Lucifer.” Alastor’s eyes were fixed on the powerful appendages. “Watching you fight… it’s truly a sight to behold.”

The words hung in the air, thick with unintended sincerity. A dark crimson flush immediately crept up Alastor’s neck and dusted his cheekbones. He snapped his gaze away from the wings, mortified by the genuine admiration that had escaped him. He cleared his throat, the sound overly loud and crackling with static, desperately trying to regain his composure. He fussed unnecessarily with the lapel of his coat, his smile—which had momentarily softened and shown surprise—now stretching back to its usual wide, sharp curve, though it felt strained, forced.

"A rather... efficient resolution," he added briskly, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. He avoided looking directly at Lucifer, instead casting a dismissive glance at the groaning, broken forms scattered around them.

But even as he feigned indifference, his eyes kept darting back, drawn almost against his will to the visual marvel of Lucifer's wings, still fully unfurled behind him. It was fascinating and deeply unsettling to find himself so arrested by this contradictory facet – the celestial and the infernal embodied – of the King who so thoroughly confounded him, standing right there.

Lucifer registered the surprisingly intense compliment about his fighting, quickly followed by Alastor flushing crimson and abruptly looking away. Caught off guard by the whole exchange, a faint warmth touched Lucifer's cheeks.

“Uh… Thanks,” Lucifer mumbled, slightly flustered by the unexpected praise itself, directing the words more down towards the pavement.

He noticed, however, that Alastor, despite trying to look nonchalant and fiddling with his cane, kept darting quick, almost involuntary glances towards his back. The Radio Demon was clearly still discomposed.

Confused by this continued odd behavior, Lucifer finally glanced over his shoulder. “Oh! Whoops!” he exclaimed with forced lightness upon seeing the wings. He tucked them away instantly with a casual flick and a soft shimmer. “Heh. Didn’t even realize these were still out.”

Turning back to face Alastor properly now that the wings were gone, Lucifer found himself pinned by a suddenly direct and unnervingly intense stare. The flush was still high on Alastor’s cheekbones, his smile was stretched tight, almost painfully wide, and his crimson eyes locked onto Lucifer’s with a sharp, focused intensity that felt startlingly raw – like static building just before a lightning strike, holding a predatory charge that Lucifer hadn't seen directed at him quite like that before.

That stare – stripped of the earlier fluster and now purely intense – hit Lucifer like a physical blow. The faint warmth on his cheeks exploded into a deep, incandescent golden blush. He felt suddenly hot all over, his breath catching. Utterly wrong-footed and genuinely embarrassed now by that look, he stammered, unable to form a coherent thought, and abruptly dropped his gaze, finding the cracks in the sidewalk immensely interesting.

The heavy silence that fell this time wasn't just awkward; it felt dangerously charged, vibrating with the unspoken energy of Alastor's intense stare.

Suddenly putting on a show to break the tension, Alastor gave his microphone cane a theatrical flourish, swirling it dramatically through the air. His smile snapped back to its full, razor-sharp width, perhaps a touch too wide, as he aimed his gaze – and his commentary – firmly away from Lucifer and down towards the Sinners he’d personally dealt with.

“Ah! Splendid!” he announced with forced brightness, his voice booming with the exaggerated enthusiasm of a gameshow host discovering a prize. “What have we here?”

He peered down with mock curiosity. His gaze swept over the gruesome assortment of limbs—arms, legs, and other choice pieces—he'd personally carved from the Sinners he’d dispatched during the brief scuffle, now scattered across the pavement. With a barely perceptible flicker of shadows near his feet, these macabre remains were instantly swept together, and a neat, dark bundle appeared almost instantly in his free hand, held together by shifting darkness. The whole collection process took less than a second, clearly designed to move things along quickly.

“Rosie does appreciate fresh delicacies,” Alastor chirped, sounding far too pleased with himself as he briskly brushed his hands together with a neat, dismissive gesture, as if tidying up after a minor task. He gave the bundle an almost dainty little heft. “A little treat from our city excursion!”

Lucifer pulled a face, wrinkling his nose. “Ew,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough only for himself to hear. Dealing with Alastor apparently meant dealing with… this. ‘Way to ruin the mood, Alastor’, he thought, a flicker of pure exasperation crossing his face for a second before he schooled it back into neutrality.

“Right then,” Alastor declared briskly, already turning on his heel, bundle in hand, acting as if presenting mysterious body parts was the most normal post-fight activity imaginable. He gestured invitingly with his cane towards Cannibal Town. “Shall we proceed to the Emporium? Wouldn’t want to be late!”

Lucifer let out a quiet sigh, resigned. This ‘friendship’ was going to be weird. Resolutely ignoring the ‘treat’ Alastor was carrying, he fell into step beside him. “After you,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. Beside him, a brief burst of faint, brassy, distorted jazz crackled directly from Alastor’s microphone cane – a phantom radio broadcast signalling his clear pleasure with the afternoon’s chaotic yet surprisingly fruitful turn of events.

Notes:

The next chapter of the story, "Dainties and Dummies," will be posted on Thursday. Thanks for reading!

Chapter 10: Dainties and Dummies

The faint, triumphant strains of staticky jazz faded from Alastor’s microphone cane as they stepped properly onto the main thoroughfare of Cannibal Town. Lucifer let out a quiet sigh, the tension from the Vox encounter starting to dissipate, replaced by a wary curiosity. This friendship with Alastor was proving to be… eventful. And apparently involved surprise visits to cannibal territories. Fun.

He glanced around as they walked, Alastor falling into an easy, familiar stride beside him. The street looked like something torn from Earth’s early 20th century – Sinners strolled along cobblestone sidewalks dressed in surprisingly dapper vintage attire, past buildings boasting ornate, Gilded Age architecture. Adding to the strangely picturesque scene, neat flower boxes lined many windowsills, and tidy garden beds bordering the buildings were filled with surprisingly normal-looking flowers, including meticulously kept rose bushes laden with blooms that appeared a vivid crimson under the ambient ruby light of Hell’s sky. Faint strains of jaunty, old-timey music drifted from unseen windows, mingling with cheerful chatter that occasionally dipped into unsettlingly graphic detail. It was almost… charming? If you ignored the occasional dismembered limb lying nonchalantly in a gutter or the unnervingly wide, fixed smile shared by most residents. It felt strangely orderly, though, especially compared to the rest of Pentagram City – a testament, Alastor had once casually remarked, to Rosie’s firm leadership.

Lucifer noticed Alastor seemed genuinely relaxed here, his usual sharp alertness softened by an air of comfortable familiarity. The Radio Demon tilted his head slightly, taking in the sights and sounds with quiet appreciation, a stark contrast to the disdain he usually showed for Hell’s more modern vulgarities. Lucifer supposed this quaint, slightly blood-stained slice of Hell appealed to Alastor’s own ‘vintage personality’.

Their destination soon came into view: Rosie’s Emporium, an elegant building distinguished by its large display windows and an entrance door with a stylized skull decorating the space directly above it.

Alastor reached the door first, the neat, dark bundle held together by shifting shadows still present in his free hand. He pushed open the heavy glass door. A cheerful bell chimed above them, startlingly bright against the ambient sounds of the town.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of dried lavender and polished wood, with an underlying metallic sweetness. Polished floors reflected gleaming display counters and racks of antique clothing. It was meticulous, curated, and undeniably Rosie’s domain.

“Alastor, darling!” A voice, warm and melodious with an unmistakable old-timey lilt, echoed from the back of the shop.

Rosie emerged, gliding towards them with an elegance that commanded attention. Tall, slender, clad in her signature maroon Victorian dress and elaborate hat, her smile was wide and sharp, yet somehow radiated genuine warmth. Her pitch-black eyes crinkled at the corners as she focused on the Radio Demon.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” she beamed, reaching him. “Well now, look who finally decided to grace my doorstep! It’s been far too long, my dear!”

Alastor gave a soft chuckle, a low hum of static accompanying the sound. He then presented the dark bundle with a small, theatrical flourish.

“A little treat from our city excursion, my dear Rosie,” Alastor chirped, his voice laced with satisfaction. “Consider it a small gift to make amends for my prolonged absence.”

Rosie’s eyes lit up with genuine delight, accepting both the gift and the stated apology. She took the bundle carefully, her smile widening further. “Oh, Alastor, you shouldn’t have! But I’m so glad you did!” she exclaimed, giving the bundle an appreciative little heft. “These look wonderfully fresh! Top quality, I can tell. You always find the best… ingredients.” She glanced up at him fondly. “Never a dull moment with you around, is there, darling?”

Her gaze then slid past Alastor to land on Lucifer, her smile softening with polite curiosity. “My, my, and who is this handsome accompaniment? Franklin always said you were a lone wolf, Al.”

Alastor inclined his head, the gesture almost fond. “Rosie, my dear,” his voice was smooth. “May I present His Majesty, Lucifer Morningstar, King of Hell.” He made a small, respectful gesture towards Lucifer. “Your Majesty, the proprietor of this esteemed establishment, and a cherished friend, Rosie.”

Rosie’s black eyes widened slightly. She executed a flawless, deep curtsy. “Your Majesty!” The surprise in her voice sounded genuine, quickly followed by warmth. “Goodness, what a distinct honor! Please, welcome to my Emporium. It’s a true delight to finally meet you in person!”

Lucifer found himself slightly disarmed by her genuine, unaffected welcome, though he tried very hard not to think about what was inside the bundle she was now holding. He offered a polite nod. “Thank you, Rosie. The pleasure is mine.”

“Nonsense, the pleasure’s all ours!” Rosie insisted, handing the bundle off to a small, silent cannibal attendant who appeared as if from nowhere and vanished just as quickly. “But we can’t chat properly out here in the shop! Come, come, let’s retire to my private parlor. Much more comfortable for esteemed guests.”

She gestured towards an ornate doorway draped with heavy velvet curtains. Lucifer followed Rosie, Alastor falling into step beside him. They passed through the curtains into a smaller, richly decorated room. Plush armchairs upholstered in deep pink velvet were arranged around a low, polished table. The lighting was softer here, the air quieter.

Rosie gestured towards the seating. As Lucifer approached one of the armchairs, Alastor, moving with an unthinking, fluid grace that seemed entirely instinctual, reached out and subtly pulled the heavy chair back a few inches, holding it steady.

Rosie, standing nearby and about to take her own seat, froze for a fraction of a second. Her wide smile didn’t falter, but her pitch-black eyes widened almost imperceptibly, fixing on the deer demon for a beat longer than necessary.

 Alastor’s action was a small, perfectly executed gesture of old-world gallantry, the kind one might perform without thought for a lady, and one Rosie knew was exceptionally unusual coming from Alastor towards anyone, let alone the King. And, as the Cannibal Overlord  knew perfectly well from countless conversations over tea where Alastor had voiced his utter disdain, it was entirely, shockingly out of character for the Radio Demon to perform such a courtesy specifically for the King of Hell, a man he professed to detest.

Lucifer, however, completely missed it. Preoccupied with taking in the new room and still processing the whirlwind of the day, he simply turned and sat down in the offered chair without a second glance, oblivious to the minor courtesy.

Alastor took the seat next to Lucifer with his usual composure, though perhaps he adjusted his bowtie with a touch more precision than usual. Rosie watched them both settle before smoothly gliding into the armchair opposite them, though a fleeting, perplexed expression momentarily touched her features as her gaze lingered briefly between the two men.

Composing herself instantly into the picture of gracious hospitality, Rosie reached for an elegant, steaming teapot that had appeared silently on the low table between them. With practiced ease, she poured the fragrant, amber liquid into three delicate porcelain cups.

Once the cups were filled, she set the pot down and turned her warm attention fully to Lucifer, her expression shifting to one of thoughtful recollection. “Your Majesty,” she began, her voice warm, “forgive my forwardness, but I believe I had the pleasure of meeting your daughter recently? Princess Charlie?”

Lucifer’s attention snapped fully to her, his posture straightening, the previous interactions momentarily forgotten. “You met Charlie?”

“Oh, yes!” Rosie confirmed, clapping her hands together lightly. “She came here seeking allies for that charming hotel project of hers. Such spirit! That girl has real moxie, I tell you!” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Full of fire and ideals, trying to make a difference. It’s quite admirable, really. A bright light in a dark place.” She smiled warmly at Lucifer. “You’ve raised a remarkable young woman, Sire. You must be bursting with pride.”

The sincere praise, the accurate observation of Charlie’s spirit, hit Lucifer right in the heart. He felt the familiar swell of paternal pride, a warmth flooding his chest that chased away any lingering awkwardness or regal stiffness. This Overlord, this elegant cannibal, understood his Charlie.

A wide, genuine smile spread across Lucifer’s face, softer and more open than any expression he usually wore in public. “I am,” he admitted, his voice catching slightly with emotion. “More than anything. She’s… the best of us.”

He met Rosie’s gaze; hearing her speak so warmly and genuinely about his daughter, he already found her quite likeable.

Rosie smiled, seemingly pleased by his reaction, and gracefully lifted her own teacup. Lucifer and Alastor followed suit. He took a tentative sip. Earl Grey. For a moment, it felt almost civilized.

“Speaking of neighborhood happenings,” Rosie began conversationally, taking a delicate sip from her cup, her black eyes twinkling with amusement, “Poor Susan had another spot of bother with her prize-winning pitcher plants just the other day.”

Lucifer raised an eyebrow, curious despite himself. Alastor leaned forward slightly, clearly familiar with Cannibal Town gossip.

“Oh?” Alastor prompted.

“Yes,” Rosie sighed dramatically, though a smile played on her lips. “Seems that dreadful fellow from two doors down – the one with the penchant for acidic concoctions? – well, he ‘accidentally’ spilled something rather potent over her fence again. The poor things shriveled up faster than a sinner in holy water! Susan was spitting mad, I tell you.” She chuckled softly. “Some neighbors, honestly.”

She took another sip of her tea, then paused, looking between her guests and the teacups.

“Oh, goodness me, where are my manners?” she suddenly exclaimed, placing her cup back on its saucer with a delicate clink. “Chatting away like this and I haven’t offered you gentlemen a single thing to nibble on with your tea! How terribly remiss of me.”

With graceful ease, Rosie rose from her armchair and glided over to an ornate, dark wood cabinet standing against one wall of the parlor. She opened it, revealing several shelves neatly lined with various jars and platters. She selected a tiered silver platter laden with small, artfully arranged delicacies and brought it back to the table, placing it between them. Upon closer inspection, Lucifer realized the artful arrangements consisted of things like glistening, candied eyeballs, actual demon tongues, perhaps cured or lightly cooked, with their tips unsettlingly dipped in dark chocolate, and disturbingly realistic glazed pinky fingers.

“There, that’s better!” Rosie chirped brightly, settling back into her seat. “Now, you must try some of my little specialties! Alastor, darling, I know you adore these.”

“Indeed I do, Rosie!” Alastor immediately reached for one of the chocolate-dipped demon tongues with unfeigned enthusiasm, biting off the non-chocolate end delicately.

Rosie then turned her inviting smile to Lucifer, offering the platter towards him. “And for you, Your Majesty? Perhaps a sugared pinky finger? They’re quite the treat, fresh from this morning’s… acquisitions.”

Lucifer stared at the platter, the sight of the demon tongues half-covered in chocolate somehow making them even more grotesque beside the eyeballs. His stomach churned violently. He forced a tight, strained smile, feeling decidedly unwell.

“Ah… no, thank you, Rosie,” he managed, trying desperately to sound polite rather than utterly revolted. “I appreciate the offer, truly, but… that’s not quite to my taste.”

“Nonsense, Sire!” Rosie insisted brightly, maintaining her gracious smile even as she pushed the platter a fraction closer. “Don’t stand on ceremony, I insist you try just one!”

Lucifer recoiled visibly this time, shaking his head more firmly, his disgust clear on his face. “No, really. Thank you, but absolutely not. I find that… rather repulsive, actually.”

Alastor paused, another chocolate-dipped tongue halfway to his mouth. He saw the faint flicker of surprise – perhaps a touch of offense despite her outwardly gracious smile – cross Rosie’s face at Lucifer’s blunt disgust. The sheer rudeness of the King, calling Rosie’s carefully prepared delicacies ‘repulsive’ right to her face – it was deeply irritating. Alastor’s own smile tightened dangerously. How dare he insult Rosie’s hospitality?

He turned towards Lucifer, his eyes narrowing to crimson slits, static crackling sharply around him. He opened his mouth, intending to deliver a blistering remark about Lucifer's pathetic fragility and appalling lack of manners. ‘You snob, ill-mannered—’ the insult formed, dripping with contempt.

But the curse twisted the words before they could fully form. Instead of the intended tirade, what ripped out, strained and crackling with barely controlled static, was: “I should be quite irritated…” Alastor paused, the static around him whining as he fought the admission, “…but instead… Lucifer,” the name sounded tight, forced, “if there is one thing I admire about you…” He seemed to grit his teeth behind the smile. “…it is your genuineness. Your innocent sincerity.”

The statement hung in the tense silence. Lucifer stared, momentarily stunned by the unexpected words and the use of his name. Instead of confusion or annoyance, a strange warmth bloomed in his chest. He felt his cheeks flush golden, and a surprised sparkle lit his eyes as he looked directly at Alastor, caught completely off guard by the raw, albeit forced, compliment.

Alastor looked aghast, his smile frozen, clearly horrified to have admitted not only this specific, peculiar admiration but to have used the King's first name in front of Rosie while doing so. The static around him hissed violently before he clamped down on it.

Rosie had just taken a delicate sip of her tea when Alastor’s words – the explicit internal conflict, the first name, the incredibly specific compliment – hit her. Her eyes flew wide above the rim of the cup. For a split second, her composure faltered; she made a tiny, choked sound in her throat, clearly suppressing the urge to spray Earl Grey across her pristine parlor. With a distinct, sharp gulp, she forced the tea down, her throat working. She then placed the teacup back on its saucer with meticulous care. She stared wide-eyed between Alastor (who looked mortified) and Lucifer (who looked perplexedly touched), shaking her head almost imperceptibly. “Well…” she finally breathed out, her voice barely a whisper but sharp with astonishment, “freeze me in the ninth circle.”

The charged silence stretched for another beat before Lucifer seemed to physically shake himself, snapping back to awareness. His face was still burning a bright gold, the sparkle in his eyes warring with profound embarrassment now. ‘Alastor had just… complimented my sincerity? And used my name? In front of Rosie?’ The absurdity, the sheer social awkwardness of it all crashed down on him. He needed to shut this down.

He glared at the deer demon, intending to hiss furiously, ‘Stop making fools of us in front of an Overlord, you grinning jackass!’

He opened his mouth, annoyance flaring, but the curse immediately seized the intent. It latched onto the residual warmth and dizzying fluster Alastor’s unexpected words (and name usage) had sparked within him, twisting his intended anger into something entirely different, something mortifyingly… enraptured.

What tumbled out instead, sounding breathless and far too revealing, was: “Must you always… say things that make my head spin like that, Alastor?

As soon as the words left his mouth, Lucifer’s eyes widened in fresh horror. ‘Make my head spin?! Did I REALLY just say that?! Out loud?!’ He wanted to clamp his hands over his mouth, maybe just spontaneously combust. The golden blush on his cheeks somehow deepened even further.

Alastor, who had just been reeling from his own shocking admission, stared at Lucifer as if he’d sprouted a second head. The air crackled violently, not just with static this time, but with a sharp, high-pitched SKREEEEEECH of microphone feedback that seemed to rip directly from Alastor himself, making both Lucifer and Rosie flinch.

Immediately following the screech, Alastor shot to his feet, his movements jerky and unnatural, his usual grace completely gone. His smile was stretched into a terrifyingly wide, glassy rictus. “Apologies,” he ground out, the word clipped and strained. “Must… powder my nose.” Without waiting for a reply or looking at either of them, he turned sharply and stalked out of the private parlor with a stiff, almost robotic gait, disappearing back through the velvet curtains, presumably in search of the nearest restroom or perhaps just oblivion.

An intensely awkward silence descended upon the room, punctuated only by the faint sway of the velvet curtains. Lucifer stared after Alastor, utterly mortified by his own words.

Rosie watched the curtains settle, her expression initially frozen from the earlier exchange. Then, her head tilted slightly as Alastor’s ridiculous excuse echoed in the quiet room. “‘Powder my nose’?” she murmured softly to herself, a flicker of disbelief in her pitch-black eyes. “Since when does Alastor ever give a fig about powder?”

And just like that, it clicked. The pieces slammed together in her mind: Alastor pulling out the chair with unthinking gallantry. Alastor, flustered and defensive, using the King’s first name. Alastor admitting admiration for Lucifer’s sincerity, even while clearly irritated. And now, Alastor fleeing the room using the most absurdly unfitting excuse imaginable… because he was clearly rattled beyond measure by the King’s presence and his own baffling reactions.

A slow, knowing smile spread across Rosie’s face, replacing the shock. It was small, subtle, but held a universe of amusement and dawning understanding. ‘Oh, Alastor,’ she thought with deep fondness, ‘you poor, oblivious fool. You’re completely smitten.’

Her gaze, now holding this new knowledge, shifted to Lucifer, who still looked profoundly embarrassed and was avoiding eye contact. Her demeanor shifted, the amusement softening into the warmth of a concerned, protective friend, now armed with a crucial insight into the situation. She leaned forward slightly in her armchair, her voice quiet but firm.

“Your Majesty,” she began, her tone losing its earlier playful lilt, “forgive my directness, but Alastor…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “He doesn’t let people in easily. Not really.”

Lucifer looked up, surprised by her serious tone.

“He puts on a grand show,” Rosie continued, her gaze steady, “all smiles and radio charm, but underneath… he guards himself fiercely. The last time he truly considered someone a close confidante, a genuine friend…” she trailed off, a shadow crossing her features as she alluded to the unnamed past friendship, “…it ended quite badly. Left some deep scars, ones I doubt he’d ever admit to.”

She met Lucifer’s eyes directly now, her expression earnest but firming into something harder. “I care for Alastor a great deal. He’s been a dear friend for a very long time, and I won’t stand by and see him hurt like that again.” Her voice dropped slightly then, losing all warmth, becoming flat and cold. Her pitch-black eyes seemed to glint with a dangerous, protective light. “So I ask you directly, Your Majesty: what are your intentions here? Because if you hurt him…” she paused, letting the silence hang heavy for a second, her smile becoming chillingly serene. “…well, let’s just say accidents happen rather frequently in Pentagram City, don't they? Especially the… messy ones.” Her gaze flickered pointedly towards the direction Alastor had taken earlier when delivering his 'gift'. “And my people do so appreciate… fresh ingredients for our little gatherings.”

The implication was crystal clear and utterly terrifying, delivered with the calm confidence of someone who could make it happen without lifting a finger herself.

Lucifer was taken aback, not just by her protectiveness, but by the cold, sharp edge of the powerful Overlord beneath the charming facade. He looked down at his hands, then back at Rosie, meeting the dangerous glint in her eyes without flinching, his own expression sobering. Hurting Alastor? The thought felt… surprisingly, decisively unwelcome.

“Rosie,” Lucifer said, his voice low but suddenly infused with unexpected passion, leaning forward slightly himself. “Look, I… I don’t know what exactly is going on! This whole thing with Alastor is… bizarre! One minute we want to kill each other, the next… well, the next this happens.” He gestured vaguely to encompass the weirdness of the day. “We only just agreed to be friends,” he emphasized the word, clearly clinging to it, “because of… circumstances. It’s confusing as Hell!” He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, agitated but sincere. “But hurting him? No! Absolutely not! Whatever weird, cursed… thing this is between us right now, I wouldn’t— He’s…” Lucifer paused, searching for the right word, surprised by the strength of his own conviction. “He’s important! In this… stupid Hotel project! For Charlie! And… yeah.” He finished lamely, but his sincerity was undeniable, fuelled by a protective instinct he didn’t fully understand himself. “So, no. Hurting him? Not on the table. Definitely not.”

Rosie studied Lucifer’s face intently, searching his eyes. She saw the lingering blush, the confusion, but most importantly, she saw the raw, passionate sincerity. He believed every word he said, defending this newfound “friendship” with fierce conviction, utterly oblivious to the deeper currents pulling him and Alastor together. He genuinely, passionately, didn’t want to hurt Alastor, even if he couldn’t articulate why beyond their strange truce.

Her expression softened considerably, the dangerous glint fading completely from her eyes, replaced by a growing, genuine warmth and perhaps a touch of amusement at his obliviousness. ‘Oh, you poor dear’, she thought. ‘You’re just as lost as he is’.

Just as a comfortable, if slightly charged, silence settled, the velvet curtains leading back to the main shop rustled. Alastor reappeared, his composure perfectly restored, smile firmly in place, though perhaps he held himself a little stiffer than usual and pointedly avoided looking directly at Lucifer. He gave Rosie a brief nod. “Shall we be off, Your Majesty?” he addressed Lucifer, his tone impeccably neutral, as if the previous ten minutes of bizarre compliments and abrupt exits hadn’t happened.

Lucifer, still slightly flustered but relieved the intense conversation with Rosie was over (and that Alastor seemed ‘normal’ again), nodded quickly. “Ah, yes. Right.” He stood up, perhaps a bit too fast.

Rosie rose gracefully as well, escorting them back through the main Emporium towards the front door. “It was a genuine pleasure having you visit, Sire,” she said warmly to Lucifer. Then, turning to both of them with a bright smile, she added, “Now, you two simply must promise to come back and visit again soon! Don’t be strangers, darlings!”

“Of course, Rosie,” Lucifer agreed readily, still feeling grateful for her kindness towards Charlie (and relieved to be leaving).

Alastor merely offered another stiff nod, his smile fixed.

Rosie watched from the doorway as they stepped back out onto the slightly less chaotic street of Cannibal Town, walking side-by-side, perhaps a fraction closer than strictly necessary, already probably bickering lightly about something Lucifer had pointed out in a shop window. She continued watching until they turned a corner.

Then, leaning against her doorframe, Rosie let out a soft, amused sigh, shaking her head slowly. A fond, knowing smile played on her lips. “Those dumb, clueless darlings…” she muttered affectionately under her breath, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “When will they figure it out?”

 

 

 

Notes:

The next chapter, "Of Melodies and Mocking Ducks," will be posted on Thursday.

Chapter 11: Of Melodies and Mocking Ducks

The heavy front doors of the Hazbin Hotel swung shut behind Lucifer and Alastor, the relative (and temporary) quiet of Cannibal Town giving way instantly to the familiar lobby din.

“…and then Ozzie just looks at him, completely deadpan, and says, ‘Darling, if your aim is that bad, maybe you should stick to seducing demons instead of attempting interior decorating with hellfire’!” Lucifer finished the anecdote with a chuckle, gesturing animatedly as they continued walking deeper into the lobby.

He seemed lighter, more relaxed than he had in ages, uplifted by the surprisingly successful outing and the fragile accord reached with his companion. Alastor walked beside him, microphone cane tapping softly against the floor, his smile apparently  a fraction less wide but holding a focused intensity directed entirely at Lucifer. He seemed genuinely captivated by the story, head tilted slightly, red eyes gleaming with amusement rather than malice, listening intently.

It was only as Lucifer’s chuckle subsided and Alastor opened his mouth, likely to offer a dry, appreciative comment on Asmodeus’s wit, that the sheer level of commotion across the lobby finally registered, interrupting their conversation and making them both pause.

The main lobby area near the bar was buzzing with an unusual energy. A chaotic cluster of demons – a mix of the hotel’s core residents and several newer, less familiar faces – were crowded around a low table dragged from a corner where Angel Dust seemed to be holding court. A large piece of cardboard covered in scrawled names, odds, and numbers served as some kind of bizarre scoreboard, and money appeared to be changing hands among loud arguments.

They took in the noisy gathering, completely unaware that they themselves were the subject of the fervent betting taking place.

Angel Dust himself was perched precariously on the edge of the bar counter, gesturing wildly and calling out updates like a manic carnival barker.

“Alright, odds are shiftin’! Seventy-five bucks says the King makes the first move before the party!” someone yelled from the crowd.

“You’re nuts! Put me down for fifty sayin’ the Radio Demon gets handsy first!” another shouted back, waving a wad of bills.

“What in the fresh Hell is that all about?” Lucifer murmured, his gaze fixed on the distant commotion near the bar where Angel seemed to be orchestrating some chaotic activity.

Suddenly, Angel Dust’s head snapped towards the entrance from his perch. His pupils dilated, the usual playful glint in his mismatched eyes replaced by sheer, unadulterated panic as he spotted them. He let out a strangled gasp, nearly toppling backward off the bar counter.

Scrambling down with surprising agility, he lunged towards Husk and Cherri Bomb, who were leaning against the far end of the bar, watching the proceedings with detached amusement.

“Oh shit, oh fuck— they’re back!” Angel hissed, voice high-pitched with terror, practically vibrating as he shoved them both. “You gotta run interference! Distract them! Go! Go now before Red hears this mess and figures it out!”

Husk let out a low, gravelly sigh, swatting Angel’s frantically grabbing hands away. “Damn it, Angel,” he growled, rolling his eyes heavenward but casting a wary glance towards the approaching pair. “Told you this thing was goIng to get out of hand.”

“Please, Husky! You have to!” Angel pleaded, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper, grabbing Husk’s arm again. The usual bravado had completely vanished, replaced by genuine fear. “Smiles finds out I organized this about them? He’ll literally flay me! He’ll use my pelt as a doormat! Just keep them busy for like, two minutes, please!”

Husk stared down at Angel’s panicked face, then took a long drag from the bottle he was perpetually nursing. Dealing with Alastor’s wrath directly was never pleasant, even when you weren’t the primary target. He let out another long-suffering sigh that ruffled his chest fur.

“Fine, fine! Shit,” Husk muttered. He placed the bottle firmly down on the bar counter, then pushed himself wearily off the stool. He gave Cherri a curt nod. “Camon, trouble.”

Cherri Bomb just grinned, always eager for a bit of disruptive action. “Lead the way, Whiskers!” she chirped, bouncing lightly on her heels.

As they hurried across the floor, Cherri shot Husk a sideways glance, a wide, knowing smirk spreading across her face. “The things you won’t do for Angie, huh, Whiskers?” she teased, nudging him lightly.

Husk’s ears flattened further, and a dark flush crept up under his fur. “Sh-shut up!” he sputtered, glaring straight ahead, clearly embarrassed. “Just… I have to keep the idiot from getting himself killed by the Fucker, alright? Nothing more to it.”

Moving with more haste than Husk usually bothered with, the two cut across the lobby, aiming to intercept Lucifer and Alastor before they got any closer to Angel’s chaotic setup.

Alastor’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes narrowed, gaze finally shifting fully from Lucifer to scan the chaotic scene with sharp curiosity joining his usual distaste for disorder. The ambient static around him intensified slightly as he started to focus on the strange setup, trying to make sense of the specific cause of the hubbub, but before he could decipher anything conclusive…

Husk deliberately stepped into the Radio Demon’s path, arranging his features into a mask of casual indifference, though his ears might have flattened slightly and the embarrassed flush still lingered under his fur.

“Hey, Boss.”

Alastor blinked, his focus snapping from the intriguing commotion by the bar to the bartender now blocking his path. The faint static around him settled slightly, though his eyes retained their sharp, curious glint. “Husker, my good fellow!” Alastor drawled, his voice regaining its smooth, broadcaster cadence, though laced with a thread of impatience. “Fancy seeing you venturing so far from your usual perch. To what do I owe the pleasure?” His head tilted slightly, trying to peer around Husk towards the continuing hubbub Angel was now frantically trying to dismantle.

Husk shifted his weight, deliberately blocking Alastor’s view. The lingering embarrassment from Cherri’s jibe warred with the urgency of his mission. “Uh, yeah, Boss,” he began, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Got a bit of a situation. Niffty.”

Alastor’s eyebrow arched slightly. “Niffty?”

“Yeah,” Husk confirmed quickly, improvising wildly. “Think she went bug-hunting in the ventilation shafts again. Heard some… uh… frantic squeaking and thumping coming from the vents near the kitchen ceiling just now. Sounded kinda stuck.”

“Ah, our dear Niffty,” Alastor replied, his tone laced with dismissive amusement, clearly unconvinced it was an emergency. “You know how she gets into scrapes, Husker. She possesses a remarkable talent for extricating herself. She’ll manage, as always.” He took a step sideways, intent on investigating the source of the earlier noise. “Now, regarding this rather energetic assembly…”

Husk immediately sidestepped with him, planting himself firmly in the way again, maybe a bit too close for comfort. “Whoa, hang on, Boss,” Husk insisted, holding up a placating hand. 'Think fast!' “There’s… uh… the bar stock!”

Alastor paused, regarding Husk with growing suspicion. “The bar stock?”

“Yeah!” Husk pressed on, gesturing vaguely back towards the bar area. “After that… uh… fire the other night? When the counter went up?” (He wisely avoided mentioning who started the fire). “We’re low on… essentials. Behind the bar. You know, glassware, napkins… that kinda important bartender crap! Needs restocking, big time! Can’t run a proper bar service!” He tried to look genuinely panicked about the lack of clean glasses.

Alastor’s smile thinned. “Is that so?” he drawled, tapping a clawed finger against his microphone cane. “Curious. I was under the distinct impression my restoration of the bar area was quite thorough. Did my magic somehow overlook polishing a few tumblers, Husker?” The static around him hummed with clear doubt and rising irritation.

“Husker,” he continued, his voice dangerously soft, dripping with forced patience. “While I appreciate your sudden, entirely uncharacteristic diligence regarding hotel inventory and housekeeping standards… you are rapidly becoming rather tiresome.”

Meanwhile, as Husk engaged in his increasingly desperate attempts to run interference, Cherri Bomb had smoothly sidled up to Lucifer. The King was still looking with bewilderment toward the now-scattered demons and Angel Dust, who was frantically whistling and pretending to admire a wall sconce.

“Heya, Big Boss!” Cherri piped up, giving him a bright, slightly manic grin that didn’t quite reach her eye. She hooked an arm casually through his. “Perfect timing! Charlie was just looking for you! It totally sounded important, like, five-alarm fire important!”

Lucifer blinked, turning his attention from the bizarre scene to the cyclops demon tugging insistently at his elbow. “Charlie? Was looking for me now?”

“Yeah, totally!” Cherri confirmed with unwavering confidence, already trying to steer him away from Alastor and Husk’s developing standoff. “Something about the… uh… party! It sounded like she really needed your help, like, right now! You know how she gets with the planning stuff!”

Lucifer straightened up, adjusting his coat. “Oh! Right, the party. Of course,” he agreed. “If Charlie needs help, can't keep her waiting!” He turned towards Alastor, who was leaning slightly towards Husk, regarding the visibly tense bartender with palpable annoyance. Husk stood stiffly, his tail twitching almost imperceptibly beneath the bar counter, forcing his expression into its usual grumpy neutrality despite the scrutiny.

“Alastor!” Lucifer called out, effectively cutting off the Radio Demon’s interrogation of Husk. “My daughter’s looking for us! She'll probably want to know how the errands went anyway. Coming?”

Alastor slowly straightened up, pulling his intense focus away from Husk. He shot the bartender one final, sharp glance, eyes narrowing slightly in lingering suspicion, before turning fully towards Lucifer. His smile tightened almost imperceptibly, and a low crackle of static briefly disturbed the air around him before smoothing out. He inclined his head with deliberate stiffness. “But of course, Your Majesty. We mustn’t keep dear Charlie waiting.”

Husk maintained his stony facade, not moving a muscle until Lucifer and Alastor started walking together towards the main staircase, leaving the commotion behind. Only once they were several steps away and turning the corner did Husk let out a long, shuddering breath, his shoulders slumping as the tension finally left him. He ran a paw over his face, muttering under his breath, “Fuck, I’m definitely too sober for this shit.”

Cherri Bomb, who had watched the entire exchange with a triumphant smirk, gave Husk a playful nudge. “See? If it wasn’t for me saving your asses all the time, you’d be toast! You can thank me later, Whiskers!” She crowed, already savoring her role in the successful diversion.

 

---

 

The usual comforting silence of Alastor’s tower felt strained that night. Sleep wouldn’t come; a restless energy, unfamiliar and irritating, thrummed beneath his skin, demanding an outlet. He considered a late-night broadcast, but the usual thrill felt… muted. The piano, perhaps. A controlled release through familiar keys. Resigned, he left the relative quiet of his domain and made his way through the slumbering hotel towards the Music Room.

He heard it before he reached the corridor’s end – the low, resonant lament of a violin drifting from the direction of the Music Room. He found the heavy oak door slightly ajar, the melancholic notes spilling into the hallway. Pausing at the threshold, he peered inside.

The room was bathed in the weak, ruby-hued light filtering down from Hell’s perpetually strange moon through the tall, arched windows. Rays of dim light slanted across the space, illuminating Lucifer standing near the center of the room, violin tucked under his chin. Gone was the crown, the formal coat; the simple white shirt and dark trousers seemed almost mundane. The ethereal light kissed his skin with the glow of moonlight itself, highlighting the fine bones of his absorbed face and tracing the elegant line of his neck. Its light caught strands of hair like spun gold, each one shimmering with the ghost of a halo as he swayed, lost in the music. Fingers, usually clenched in command or gesturing with sharp impatience, now moved with an impossible, intimate grace over the strings, coaxing forth a melody thick with nostalgia and aching with remembered things. The sound wrapped around the figure bathed in moonlight, weaving together sorrow and grace. Before him stood not the King of Hell, but the fallen angel whose incomparable beauty lived within whispered lore and ancient scripture.

Alastor simply… watched, all thought of the piano, of his own restlessness, vanishing. A quiet, consuming fascination took hold. It was as if he were seeing the King of Hell for the first time – or rather, seeing past the King entirely, recognizing the vulnerable figure bathed in moonlight. This wasn’t the monarch he traded barbs with, nor merely Charlie’s father. This was the Morningstar himself, a heartbreaking portrait of lost divinity and enduring grace. The sight held Alastor captive, a profound stillness settling over him even as, simultaneously, a strange, disruptive energy began to build low in his gut, manifesting as a strange, agitating flutter. An entirely foreign warmth bloomed in his chest then too, spreading beneath his ribs like errant sunlight. Breathless, caught between the external vision and the baffling internal dissonance, Alastor didn’t analyze or question. He merely stood frozen by the threshold, utterly stricken.

The final note hung in the air, pure and poignant, before fading into a profound silence. Lucifer lowered the violin slowly, his shoulders slumping slightly with a quiet sigh, seemingly lost in the echo of the melody.

Alastor chose that moment to step fully into the room, the soft click of his heel on the polished floor unnaturally loud in the stillness.

Lucifer startled violently, spinning around, the violin clutched defensively. His eyes widened as they landed on Alastor lurking near the doorway, and a deep golden blush instantly flooded his face. “Alastor! I— I didn’t hear you come in,” he stammered, suddenly looking flustered and exposed.

Alastor offered a slow inclination of his head, stepping further into the room, his usual wide smile firmly in place, though somehow less sharp, more… soft. He stopped a few paces away, his gaze steady on Lucifer. “My apologies for intruding,” he said, his voice holding a strange tone Lucifer had never heard from him before. He paused, red eyes holding Lucifer’s startled gold ones. Then, the words came, spontaneously, simply drawn out by the lingering power of the moment. “That was… quite stunning, Lucifer.”

The compliment, simple and utterly voluntary, hung in the air between them. Lucifer’s blush deepened, if possible. He looked down at the violin in his hands as if seeking refuge, unable to hold Alastor’s direct, unreadable gaze. “Oh. Uh… thanks. Just… fiddling around. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Nor I,” Alastor replied quietly. He didn’t move, didn’t fill the silence with his usual pointed observations or deflections. He simply watched Lucifer. The intense focus in his eyes held a different light than usual, something raw and searching, stripped of its usual calculation, almost… unguarded.

Under that unwavering, intense stare, Lucifer shifted uncomfortably. The air felt thick, charged with something unspoken. He made a small, awkward gesture, tucking the violin more securely under his arm. His free hand brushed against his pocket, and he felt the small, firm shape within. The duck. He remembered his decision earlier, the feeling of wanting to acknowledge their fragile truce, to apologize for the tail comment… to offer something. Now, in this strange, quiet moment of vulnerability and unexpected sincerity, the impulse returned, stronger this time.

He fumbled slightly, breaking eye contact again as his fingers closed around the small rubber figure in his pocket.

Taking a shallow, unsteady breath, Lucifer pulled his hand free and hesitantly extended it towards Alastor.

Resting in his palm was the small, absurd creation from his workshop: the  Alastor-duck.

“So, uh…” Lucifer started, his voice still a bit high, avoiding Alastor’s intense gaze. “This is… well. I made it. The other day. After the… tail thing.” He swallowed. “Sort of an apology? Or just… acknowledging… you know. Friends?” He winced, practically thrusting the duck forward. “Anyway, here.”

Alastor’s gaze dropped to the object, then flickered back to Lucifer’s flushed, earnest face before settling on the duck again. His hand moved forward, pausing just above Lucifer's palm as if caught momentarily off guard. He leaned closer, and as his fingertips made light, almost tentative contact with the duck, they inevitably brushed against Lucifer’s own. His usual composure seemed to waver for just an instant; an unfamiliar, rapid pulse hammered against his ribs as a flicker of unreadable softness crossed his eyes, before his smile locked back into its tight curve. ‘How utterly childish,’ he thought dismissively, the familiar defense mechanism kicking in immediately. ‘Another inane duck.’ He opened his mouth, intending to voice some perfectly calibrated, condescending remark aloud—

But the words caught, twisted by the curse, still firmly in place. What emerged instead, the sound seeming to surprise Alastor himself, was:

“It’s… adorable.”

Alastor blinked, the word hanging strangely in the air. He snapped his gaze from the ridiculous duck back to Lucifer and added, “I shall treasure it.”

Lucifer stared, speechless for a beat as Alastor intently observed the red object. Then awkwardness vanished, replaced by pure joy as a dazzling smile lit up Lucifer’s face. His eyes shone, reflecting awe and overwhelming relief.

“Really?” The angel breathed, the wide smile unwavering. “You… you like it? You don’t think it’s… stupid?”

Alastor gave a single, stiff nod, a faint, dark crimson flush unexpectedly dusting his high cheekbones, betraying the bafflement his fixed smile tried to hide. Then, instead of pulling away completely, his fingers curled almost possessively around the small duck, and in doing so, they tightened over Lucifer’s own fingers still resting just beneath it, trapping them for an instant in a startlingly intimate grasp.

It was at this specific, possessive contact that the signals manifested. A faint golden shimmer suddenly pulsed from the crimson duck and their joined hands. ‘Whoa! Quite the jolt!’ Lucifer thought, instinctively blaming the intense static electricity in the air tonight, completely overlooking the fact he was holding solid rubber. In the exact instant, he snatched his hand back as if burned, pulling his fingers free from beneath Alastor's. Simultaneously, the deer demon registered the pulse from the object now clutched solely in his hand, predictably attributing it to residual energy from the source material, which he assumed Lucifer simply conjured through magic. Almost simultaneously with the pulse, a distant chime of bells sounded, clear in the quiet room. The sound was dismissed internally by Lucifer as just more strange interference from Alastor’s microphone, during his sudden recoil, while Alastor didn't pay attention to it, being too distracted by his thoughts.  The confusing warmth still bloomed in his chest alongside the agitating flutter in his gut.

Lucifer continued to beam, rocking slightly on his heels, looking lighter than he had in centuries. The impossible compliment resonated within him, a surprising warmth momentarily overshadowing the bewildering jolt that had accompanied their touch.

Alastor, meanwhile, still clutched the small crimson duck, his knuckles a little white. The warmth in his chest warred violently with the frantic, trapped-static flutter low in his gut. Lucifer’s unabashed delight, his radiance, felt like staring directly into the sun – overwhelming, exposing, fundamentally wrong. He needed to regain control, needed to push back against this baffling vulnerability.

"Thank you," Alastor said, his voice tight, the usual smooth cadence strained, static crackling faintly around the edges. He gripped the small rubber figure tighter, his gaze darting away from Lucifer's blinding smile. "For the... the gift... Luci."

The diminutive slipped out, soft and utterly unintended, hanging suspended in the charged air. His gaze snapped up involuntarily, meeting Lucifer's startled gold eyes. He saw the King's own eyes widen further, his lips parting slightly in sheer, unadulterated astonishment at the intimate address.

Seeing that raw surprise reflected back at him seemed to break something in Alastor. The moment the name left his lips and he saw its impact, Alastor flinched as if struck. Mortification warred with bafflement on his face, visible even behind the strained smile. Without another word, apparently even without conscious thought, he executed his favored escape. Shadows coalesced around him, thick and instantaneous, swallowing his form whole. With a faint whisper of static and displaced air, he was simply... gone.

Lucifer blinked, his beam faltering slightly as he stared at the empty space where the Radio Demon had stood only a second before. The suddenness of the departure left him momentarily adrift, the warmth from the interaction abruptly cut short. Perplexity clouded his features. 'Did he... just disappear? After saying… after seeing my face?'

But then, the memory of Alastor's earlier reactions – the crimson flush spreading up his neck, the stiff nods, the possessive way he'd clutched the duck, the sheer effort behind the compliments – clicked into place. This wasn't coldness. It wasn't dismissal or disgust at the gift after all. It was... panic. Pure, unadulterated embarrassment, likely amplified by seeing Lucifer's own shock.

A sudden, warm understanding bloomed in Lucifer's chest, chasing away the confusion. A soft smile touched his lips, knowing and surprisingly fond. 'He runs away when he's embarrassed. He hides. It wasn't malice, just… his bizarre way of coping.'

His smile deepened as the echo of Alastor's parting word resonated. Luci. Not Lucifer, not Sire, not Your Majesty. Luci. A wave of startled warmth washed over him, entirely different from the earlier blush of embarrassment or the jolt of strange energy. It felt... personal. Intimate, almost. He couldn't remember the last time someone had called him by any diminutive, spoken his name with such soft, shortened familiarity. His fingers automatically went to the simple gold band on his left hand, turning it slightly. A faint pang, bittersweet and unexpected, accompanied the thought. Not since... not since Lilith. Though she had always called him Lu. The realization settled gently, adding a layer of profound, quiet astonishment to the already bewildering night – that Alastor, of all people, had stumbled upon a different, yet similarly intimate, way to address him.

He wasn't truly cold or rude, just... surprisingly vulnerable beneath all that shadow and static, behind the Radio Demon façade he wore. A vulnerability Lucifer found, disconcertingly, rather captivating.

The fallen angel, with his heart pounding hard, replayed the moment their hands brushed over the gift, that precise instant he’d felt something irrevocably change between them, a feeling of true understanding charged with a startling intimacy, a profound and singular moment of pure, unveiled connection.

 

---

 

 

Alastor materialized directly from a patch of deepening shadow within his tower room, the transition seamless. The lingering phantom scent – crisp apples mingled with that damned, pleasant cologne, an aroma that was irrevocably Lucifer – clung to him for a fraction of a second. Then the familiar humid air emanating from the pocket dimension containing his personal bayou, a feature recreated much like in his previous quarters, asserted itself within the tower room. He stood within the shadowy sanctuary, the unwelcome pleasantness of the fading scent doing nothing to soothe the frantic static already buzzing beneath his composure.

He didn’t stand still. Almost immediately, he began to pace near the shimmering edge where the bayou landscape met the more conventional floor of his room, his sharp heels clicking softly now on wood before sinking slightly into moss, his deer ears pinned flat against his skull in clear agitation.

‘What in the Hell is happening to me?’ The thought wasn't just irritating; it was deeply alarming. Fleeing like a startled fawn? Uttering… nicknames? Accepting childish trinkets with something approaching… sincerity? ‘Why am I behaving in this utterly ridiculous manner?’ His perfectly maintained control felt frayed, compromised by… by what? By the King's baffling earnestness? By that ridiculous, unexpected warmth the absurd gesture had sparked? Preposterous!

His gaze fell upon the object still clutched tightly in his hand. The small, crimson, grinning effigy of himself. He stared down at it, and the ridiculous thing seemed to stare right back. Its painted-on, wide grin felt almost offensively cheerful under the circumstances. The microscopic monocle over one eye somehow made it look like it was raising a skeptical eyebrow, silently mocking his current state of disarray. A fresh wave of frustration surged through him – hot, sharp, and utterly undignified. How dare this inanimate piece of rubber judge him?

With a snarl muffled by static, Alastor hurled the offending rubber duck across the room towards the bayou section. It sailed through the humid air in a decidedly ungraceful arc before landing with a soft thump and an utterly pathetic SQUEAK! against the base of a gnarled cypress knee near the water's edge.

Alastor froze mid-stride, his wide smile locked, his eyes fixed on the ridiculously cheerful toy lying askew on the moss within the evoked landscape. The squeak seemed to echo in the sudden silence, adding auditory insult to the visual injury of its earlier perceived mockery.

He stared at the small crimson form for a long moment. Then, with a quiet sigh that sounded suspiciously like static escaping through clenched teeth, Alastor stalked into the bayou section towards the fallen toy. He picked it up, perhaps a bit too carefully, dusting off a speck of imaginary swamp debris with a flick of his claw.

Turning, he walked back across the room with stiff precision to the simple, dark wood nightstand beside his bed. He placed the Alastor-duck down gently, positioning it just so, facing slightly outwards. It sat there, a bright crimson absurdity amid the room's shadowy ambiance.

Alastor's gaze lingered on it for a final moment before turning away. It was then his sharp eyes caught an almost microscopic detail sketched onto one of the duck's wings: a perfect little replica of his own microphone staff head. The unexpected, personalized detail sent another confusing flicker through him. He let out a low, internal "Grumph" of pure, unresolved annoyance and utter confusion before turning sharply away.

 

Notes:

The next chapter, "Good Morning, Morningstar!", will be posted on Thursday.

Chapter 12: Good Morning, Morningstar!

The morning felt different. Lucifer felt different. For the first time in longer than he could accurately recall – centuries, probably – the familiar gray apathy that had clung to him like a shroud seemed to have lifted. Replaced by a strange, buoyant energy, he walked down the corridor towards the main dining hall with an uncharacteristic spring in his step. He was whistling a cheerful tune, twirling his apple-topped cane with absentminded flicks of his wrist. A genuine sparkle shone in his eyes. He hadn’t felt this… light, this oddly optimistic, in ages.

He rounded a corner, the scent of coffee and the background noise from the dining hall faint but growing stronger, indicating his proximity to the dining area. Just as he was contemplating what sort of pancakes might suit his excellent mood, a familiar crimson figure came into view, heading away from the dining hall towards the towers.

Alastor.

The Radio Demon stopped momentarily upon seeing him. There was a minuscule jolt, a barely perceptible flicker of surprise in his crimson eyes that widened fractionally. He quickly regained his composure.

Lucifer’s own cheerful steps didn’t falter. Buoyed by the previous night’s understanding and his current surprisingly good mood, the sight of the other demon sparked warmth rather than the usual apprehension. He beamed, the expression open and amiable.

“Al, what a pleasure to see you! Good morning!” Lucifer greeted him warmly, the nickname slipping out easily now.

Alastor inclined his head, his posture the epitome of formal composure. The slight rigidity around his smile and the careful neutrality in his eyes were the only hints of the previous night's chaotic ending. “Your Majesty,” he replied, his voice smooth, filtered through its usual layer of faint static, perhaps a touch more measured than usual. “A good morning to you as well.”

Lucifer didn't seem bothered by the formality, his own good mood apparently insulating him. His amiable expression remained as he took a step closer, eager to share his thoughts.

"Anyway," Lucifer continued, leaning slightly on his cane, "I wanted to catch you. You know, yesterday happened so fast – first that business with Vox, then heading straight over to Rosie's..." He paused, a fond chuckle escaping him as he got sidetracked by the memory. "Speaking of Rosie, she's just adorable, by the way, Al! Really charming. I need to remember to bring her a little something next time we visit!"

He wrinkled his nose slightly in thought. "Something... maybe less cannibalistic, though. Hmm, I wonder if she likes sweets...?"

As Lucifer mused, Alastor's smile tightened a fraction. The static around him gave a soft, almost inaudible hiss before he cut smoothly into the King's rambling. "You were saying something, Your Majesty?" His voice held a distinct undercurrent of impatience.

Lucifer blinked, then laughed lightly, waving a dismissive hand at his own tangent. "Haha, oh right! Sorry, got sidetracked... Right. So, yesterday, when that flashy fellow – Box, was it? – pulled me aside, he made some offer about advertising the party. It was all slick graphics and buzzing nonsense about needing a modern approach – and full of empty promises, besides. As if! Naturally, I refused him point-blank."

He paused, then looked back at Alastor, his expression turning earnest, his gaze fixed intently on the Radio Demon, alight with an eager, almost vibrating anticipation. "And I was thinking..." he began, his voice a little softer, more deliberate now, "since we need to get the word out... how would you feel about announcing the grand reopening party on your radio program? I honestly think you'd be far more capable than... him... and your reach would undoubtedly ensure we have a spectacular turnout! Make the whole thing a roaring success!"

The air shifted. Alastor went very still, his usual composed facade seeming to flicker for a beat as he processed Lucifer’s words – the dismissal of Vox, the deliberate misnaming, the firm refusal, and crucially, the active validation of his radio show, his capability, offered so earnestly by the King himself as the superior choice.

For a heart-stopping moment, his smile faltered, softening into something stunned and almost unguarded. The crimson in his eyes seemed to swirl, losing their sharp focus, replaced by a wide-eyed flicker of something akin to bewildered pleasure. The ever-present static around him hitched, dissolving into a faint, warm hum. A dark flush crept up his neck again, dusting his cheekbones. This direct, personal validation from Lucifer... it hit differently than mere triumph over a rival.

Then, the moment passed, but the vulnerability didn't entirely vanish. It settled, layering under his restored composure. The smile returned, still wide, but now stretched with an almost unbearable level of smug satisfaction mixed with genuine, gratified pleasure. His posture might have relaxed almost imperceptibly. The static coalesced back into a low, pleased purr, losing its defensive edge entirely.

"Why, Lucifer..." Alastor practically purred the name, the sound smooth as velvet and brimming with this newfound satisfaction. He leaned forward just slightly, his crimson eyes gleaming, fixed on Lucifer with an intensity born now of sheer, gratified pleasure rather than predatory calculation. "That is... an astute observation. And an excellent proposal."

‘Right,’ Lucifer thought, his brain short-circuiting slightly at the combination of the purr, the name, the intense gaze, and the proximity. ‘He’s purring. Near my ear. And those ridiculous ears still look so... fluffy.’ His fingers twitched with an utterly inappropriate urge to reach out. ‘Do NOT think about touching the fluffy ears, Lucifer. Bad. Very bad thought.’ He swallowed, forcing himself to focus past the sudden, intense heat rising in his cheeks.

Alastor straightened slightly, though the pleased energy still radiated from him. "Radio is, of course, the only truly sophisticated medium for such an important announcement. Consider it done." He then tilted his head, a calculating look entering his eyes. "Naturally, such a broadcast requires the proper facilities and my personal touch to ensure the... perfect tone. You'll join me in the tower this afternoon, shall we say? We can record the announcement together."

Lucifer, still recovering from his internal scramble about fluffy ears, blinked at the casual yet loaded invitation. The tower? Alastor’s actual, private radio tower? Not the hotel’s common areas, not even Alastor’s suite, but the broadcast studio upstairs – the heart of the Radio Demon’s power and persona.

He knew, instinctively, what a significant gesture this was. Alastor didn’t do visitors, not in his inner sanctum. The sheer privacy of the place was legendary. The thought settled, heavy and surprisingly warm, amidst the lingering fluster. ‘His tower,’ Lucifer thought again, a wave of quiet astonishment washing over him. ‘He actually trusts me enough for that? Wow. Okay. This… this feels important.’

He met Alastor’s gaze, his own expression clearing, becoming serious and strangely sincere. The earlier teasing sparkle in his eyes was replaced by a quiet gravity as he fully registered the weight of the offer. “Your tower,” he echoed softly, the words holding resonance. He gave a firm, deliberate nod. “Yes, Alastor. I understand.” A small, genuine smile touched his lips, conveying more than words. “I’d be honored. This afternoon is perfect.”

A beat of silence stretched into two, thick with the unspoken weight of the invitation accepted. The air between them seemed to crackle, pulling them into focus until the noisy corridor vanished entirely. Lucifer found himself lost in the crimson depths of Alastor's eyes, noticing for the first time the almost hypnotic way the light seemed to swirl within them, pulling him deeper. Alastor, in turn, held Lucifer's gaze captive, his own sharp focus softened into something magnetic, intense yet unnervingly personal, almost searching. It felt as though the world had tilted slightly on its axis, leaving them momentarily adrift in the quiet space between heartbeats, anchored only by that unwavering stare.

It was precisely then that Angel Dust chose to saunter down the hallway, perhaps heading back from some late breakfast or early scheme. Spotting the pair standing rather close and looking far too intently at each other, he paused, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face. "Well, well! Heya, Short King! Hey, Smiles!" he called out breezily, leaning against the opposite wall.

Neither demon reacted immediately. Lucifer’s gaze was still locked with Alastor’s, lost in those crimson depths. Alastor, equally focused, still held that intense, magnetic gaze directed squarely at the King. They were, for all intents and purposes, utterly lost in their own little world.

Angel blinked, his grin widening mischievously. He pushed off the wall and stepped closer, waving a hand directly in front of their faces with exaggerated flair. "Hellooo? Anybody home in there? Yoo-hoo?"

Lucifer blinked rapidly, startled out of his reverie as the hand waved inches from his nose. "Uh? What? Angel?"

Alastor snapped his head towards Angel, his smile instantly sharpening back to its default setting, perhaps a touch defensively, annoyed at the interruption. "Right then," he announced abruptly, clearing his throat with a soft crackle of static and pointedly ignoring Angel Dust's knowing expression. He gave Lucifer a curt, formal nod. "Until this afternoon, Your Majesty." And with that, he turned sharply on his heel and strode briskly towards his tower, perhaps moving just a fraction faster than necessary.

Angel watched Alastor retreat down the corridor until he turned a corner. Then, he turned back towards the still slightly dazed Lucifer, a triumphant, absolutely shit-eating grin plastered across his face. He practically vibrated with smug satisfaction. Muttering, "Pay up, Whiskers," under his breath, he pushed himself upright and turned to head back towards the main lobby, practically skipping. As he went, he started humming, then singing softly but audibly in a childish, teasing tone:

"Red and Short King sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G~!"

Fortunately for Angel’s continued well-being, Alastor was already well out of earshot. And Lucifer, his gaze following Alastor's retreating back down the corridor, lost in the lingering astonishment and implications of the tower invitation, missed the impromptu, gossipy ditty completely.

 

---

 

The hours between the morning’s encounter and the afternoon appointment stretched, filled with that same restless, buoyant energy Lucifer hadn’t felt in ages. It buzzed beneath his skin, an unfamiliar mix of nervous excitement and sheer, almost unbearable anticipation for the promised visit to Alastor’s tower. The significance of that invitation hadn’t faded; if anything, it resonated more strongly as the time drew nearer, making it impossible to simply sit still.

Unable to pace his suite endlessly waiting, he’d sought distraction by ‘graciously offering his input’ during one of Charlie’s afternoon group therapy sessions downstairs. It involved… feelings circles and some kind of trust exercise with ropes, apparently. He’d jumped in with what felt like perfectly reasonable enthusiasm and bright ideas, trying to channel the buzzing energy fueled by the thought of the upcoming meeting.

His contributions, however, were met with frankly baffling reactions from Charlie’s corner. He kept catching Charlie staring at him, initially with wide-eyed, slack-jawed shock. But as the session went on, and Lucifer continued his uncharacteristically upbeat participation, he noticed her expression doing something even stranger – the shock slowly melted away, replaced by a wobbly, strangely watery smile. Her eyes kept glistening suspiciously, and she seemed to be blinking a lot, quickly looking down or away whenever she caught his eye, as if fighting back tears. Beside her, Vaggie’s reaction was a journey in itself. First, she’d shot Lucifer one of her signature sharp, suspicious glares. But then, as she clearly noticed Charlie getting misty-eyed, Lucifer saw Vaggie’s posture change. The suspicion in her visible eye seemed to dissolve, replaced by a softer look directed at Charlie, followed by a quick glance back at Lucifer that held… understanding? Acceptance? Maybe even a flicker of an almost imperceptible, knowing smile curving her lips before she quickly schooled her features back to neutrality.

‘Okay, definitely weird,’ Lucifer thought, thoroughly perplexed by the intense, fluctuating emotions. He’d even leaned over during a lull and quietly asked Charlie if something was wrong, seeing her watery eyes. She’d just blinked rapidly, sniffled, and offered him another one of those wobbly, tear-bright smiles. “Nothing, Dad,” she’d mumbled, her voice thick. "I... I don't know what's happened to make you feel this way, but... it's just really, really nice seeing you so happy." Happy? The comment made absolutely no sense to Lucifer. Why wouldn’t he be happy? He felt fantastic! Chalking it up to excessive group therapy sentimentality perhaps affecting his daughter (and apparently Vaggie too, by association), he just patted her shoulder again and let it go.

His improved mood wasn’t universal, apparently. A brief survey of the lobby confirmed Husk looked even more thunderously foul than usual, hunched protectively over his drink at the bar, muttering darkly to himself about ‘damn stupid bets’ or something equally nonsensical. Lucifer mentally shrugged – predictable misery, always complaining about something. Not his focus now.

The session eventually concluded. A check of a nearby clock confirmed the time was finally approaching. The anticipation surged back, sharp and immediate. Making a quick, perhaps slightly abrupt, excuse to a still misty-eyed Charlie and a strangely unhostile, almost thoughtful-looking Vaggie, Lucifer smoothed his coat – definitely not a nervous habit, just ensuring neatness – and left the common area, heading with decisive steps down the familiar, ornate corridor that internally connected the two towers.

He bypassed the more obvious door that likely led to Alastor’s suite on the tower’s lower level and continued further down the corridor. Almost hidden by a tapestry, was the less conspicuous door he sought, made of dark, heavy wood that seemed to absorb the light. A small, stark metal plaque was affixed to it at eye level. In crisp, severe lettering, it read: PRIVATE – KEEP OUT

Lucifer paused before it, feeling a jolt of nervous energy. This must be the way up to the studio, then. He pushed the door open tentatively; it wasn’t locked. Beyond it wasn’t another hotel hallway or a room, but a small, bare landing made of cold stone. Dominating the space was the base of a tight, wrought-iron spiral staircase that ascended steeply upwards into shadow, clinging to the inner wall of the tower. It felt distinctly separate from the rest of the hotel’s architecture, older and purely functional.

‘Right. Upwards it is,’ he thought, pulling the door shut behind him. The muffled sounds of the hotel vanished, replaced by a heavy silence broken only by the faint thrum of static in the air, stronger here. He placed a foot on the first metal step, the sound echoing slightly in the confined space as he began the climb. It wound upwards, seemingly for a couple of floors, the only illumination coming from narrow slit windows offering brief, dizzying glimpses of the Pentagram City skyline far below.

The staircase ended abruptly at another heavy, solid-looking door, this one devoid of any markings but radiating a distinct sense of… occupancy, a low hum of power almost palpable through the wood. It was firmly closed, clearly locked or barred from the other side.

Here it was. The Radio Demon’s private domain. Lucifer paused again before the final barrier, feeling a flicker of genuine hesitation, the weight of the moment pressing in. This felt far more significant than just visiting someone’s office. He instinctively reached up to adjust his hat, fingers brushing through his hair before he remembered, with a flush, that he wasn’t wearing it. Then he raised a slightly trembling hand and knocked lightly, twice, on the unyielding wood.

The response was almost immediate. The sounds of locks clicking or bolts sliding smoothly withdrawn echoed from within, and the door swung silently inward. Alastor stood framed in the doorway, looking perfectly, almost unnervingly, relaxed within his own domain. He wasn’t wearing his red suit jacket now, just his usual waistcoat, crisp red shirt, and bowtie, the sleeves of the shirt neatly rolled up to his elbows. His ever-present smile was wide and seemed genuine, holding none of the morning’s guardedness, only a calm, welcoming confidence. The ambient static seemed a part of the air here, a familiar background hum rather than a defensive shield.

"Ah, Lucifer. Right on time," Alastor greeted him easily, his voice holding its usual smooth, radio-laced cadence. He stepped back, gesturing inside with a graceful sweep of his hand into the dimly lit space beyond. “Do come in. Welcome to the studio.”

Alastor turned then, presenting his back to Lucifer for a moment as he started to move deeper into the shadowed entryway, presumably intending to lead him towards the studio proper. The soft click of the door closing behind Lucifer sounded unnervingly final in the heavy silence that followed.

It was then, as the deer demon took that first step further into his domain, that Lucifer’s eyes caught the movement just above the waistband of the demon’s trousers. The tail. That small, neat, crimson, infuriatingly fluffy deer tail.

And it was, quite unmistakably, wagging. Not a frantic beat like an overeager dog, but a slow, deliberate, almost cheerful sweep back and forth, betraying a quiet satisfaction or pleased excitement completely at odds with the calm, controlled posture Alastor projected.

Lucifer's brain stuttered. Wagging? Alastor maintained his smooth, welcoming host facade, seemingly perfectly relaxed as he turned to lead the way, yet that ridiculous fluffy tail was sweeping back and forth with undeniable enthusiasm. The complete disconnect between the demon's controlled posture and the tail's cheerful animation was... baffling. And distracting. Extremely distracting. Lucifer swallowed hard, the sound loud in the sudden quiet focused on the tail's movement. His heart gave an unsteady thump against his ribs.

A fresh wave of heat rushed violently to Lucifer's cheeks, entirely unrelated to the earlier nervousness about entering the tower. His gaze locked onto the hypnotic sway of the crimson and white fluff. He just... liked it. A lot. Too much. The way it moved, the surprising softness it implied... Gods, it was just so... fluffy. He felt utterly captivated by the sight alone.

He gave his head a tiny, sharp shake, forcing himself out of the sudden trance induced by the swaying tail. Alastor had already taken another step further into the entryway, apparently oblivious to the internal crisis his tail had just triggered. Lucifer took a shaky breath, squaring his shoulders, and started to follow him into the dimly lit depths of the Radio Demon’s private domain.

‘Oh, I'm absolutely doomed,’ Lucifer thought, a sense of wry, helpless resignation washing over him as he took the first step across the threshold after Alastor and his adorable tail.

 

Notes:

The next chapter, "Close Quarters", will be posted on Thursday.

Chapter 13: Close Quarters

The heavy door clicked shut behind Lucifer, the sound loud in the sudden quiet. The usual hotel noise vanished, replaced by an expectant quiet and the undeniable feeling of being in Alastor's space. It felt cooler here, the air charged with a presence that was uniquely him.

Lucifer swallowed, the memory of that cheerfully wagging tail still making his cheeks feel warm, but followed Alastor deeper into the dimly lit entryway. His eyes scanned the room again, this time with less nervous energy and more genuine curiosity. It was primarily a workspace, meticulously organized in a way that was both impressive and completely unlike his own creative clutter. He spotted Alastor's red jacket hanging neatly on a dark wood coat rack near the door, the large windows framing the city lights, the efficient-looking coffee station with that ridiculous, perfectly Alastor "DEER LORD" mug.

Alastor stopped near the heart of the studio: the massive vintage radio console bristling with knobs, switches, and glowing dials. A single dark leather chair sat before it. With a smooth flick of his wrist, Alastor conjured an identical second chair beside the first. His signature microphone cane leaned against the side of the console, momentarily set aside. He turned to Lucifer, that wide smile looking surprisingly relaxed, inviting even. "Please, Lucifer, have a seat," Alastor said, his voice carrying its usual radio-laced cadence, welcoming. He gestured to the newly appeared chair.

As Lucifer walked over and sat down, a strange sense of ease settled over him, pushing aside the initial jitters of entering the Radio Demon's inner sanctum. It wasn't the first time they'd been tasked with working together lately, and despite the weirdness, it hadn't always been... awful. Being here, in Alastor's private studio, felt significant, yes, but somehow less daunting now that the threshold was crossed and he'd been invited in. It felt... strangely comfortable, actually. He focused his attention on the impressive console before him, genuinely fascinated.

"Wow," he said, the word holding more curiosity than nervousness now. He looked up at Alastor, meeting his gaze more steadily. "This place is... incredibly organized, Alastor. Very professional." Then, nodding towards the complex array of controls, he added with real wonder, "And man, look at all those buttons. Gods, I wouldn't even know where to start with all this."

A soft chuckle, surprisingly devoid of mockery, escaped Alastor. He tilted his head, regarding the console with a flicker of something that might have been nostalgic pride in his crimson eyes. "Ah, well..." he began, his voice losing some of its usual sharp edge, taking on a faintly reminiscent tone even through the radio filter. "It certainly helps when one has... prior experience, you see." He tapped a long finger lightly on one of the dials. "This wasn't my first foray into the delightful world of broadcasting."

Lucifer's eyes widened slightly. He leaned forward a fraction, intrigued. Alastor rarely spoke about his time on Earth, making this quiet confession even more remarkable. "Prior experience?" he echoed, his voice softer now, laced with curiosity. "You mean... when you were alive?" He hesitated for only a second, sensing the potential significance of the moment. "Where... where did you live, Alastor?"

Alastor didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted past Lucifer, probably towards one of the large windows overlooking the city, but his focus seemed turned inward. The wide, sharp smile softened at the edges, becoming something smaller, genuinely reminiscent. When he spoke again, the usual clipped, performative cheer was replaced by an unexpected warmth, a low current of fondness flowing beneath the filtered cadence.

"Ah..." he breathed, a quiet sigh carrying the weight of memory. "New Orleans." The name itself seemed to conjure something within him. "A city with a soul quite unlike any other, Luci. Vibrant, alive... full of opportunity." His eyes seemed to gleam with remembered sights and sounds. "Always pulsing with music, day and night. The air back home, thick with the scent of chicory, spice, and the wild perfume of the bayou... Never a dull moment, I assure you. Quite the place for... entertainment."

He seemed to catch himself then, the nostalgic softness receding slightly as his usual composure began to reassert itself, but the glimpse had been offered.

Lucifer simply watched, momentarily silent, fascinated by the shift in the demon beside him. He knew Alastor didn't easily share details about himself and his previous life, making this unexpected warmth even more striking. Then, something clicked. New Orleans. Music, spice...

"New Orleans..." Lucifer repeated, realization dawning in his eyes. He snapped his fingers lightly. "Of course! The jambalaya! You're always making jambalaya down in the hotel kitchen." A small, self-deprecating smile touched his lips. "How stupid of me! I should have guessed you were from that part of the world!"

Alastor's smile softened again, losing its sharpness entirely for a moment, replaced by genuine nostalgia. "My mother..." he began, his voice quieter now, the radio filter seeming thinner, almost negligible, allowing the raw fondness through. "She had a real gift for it. True Creole cooking." He paused, his gaze distant. "Haven't tasted anything quite like it since..." He trailed off, then added softly, almost under his breath, "I do miss it."

Lucifer heard the words, saw the shadow of profound longing in Alastor's eyes before it was quickly masked. ‘He doesn't just mean the food’, Lucifer understood instantly, the realization hitting him with surprising clarity. He saw the vulnerability beneath the carefully controlled admission, the echo of a loss far deeper than just cuisine. Sensing the sudden weight in the air, the potential for Alastor to withdraw completely after such a rare display, Lucifer quickly sought to lighten the mood, deflecting with humor aimed at himself.

He forced a chuckle, leaning back slightly in his chair. "Well, I guarantee no one misses my cooking!" he declared with dramatic flair. "Charlie certainly doesn't. Except for the pancakes, maybe. Everything else is a certified disaster zone." He shuddered theatrically. "Pretty sure I managed to mess up just making coffee the other morning down in the kitchen. That's nothing, though! You think that's bad? Get this: one time, back at the palace, alarms started blaring everywhere, guards were running around like headless chickens, seriously thought they might have to evacuate the entire wing..." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Total chaos, everyone braced for some major disaster." He paused for effect, a mischievous glint in his eye. "And the cause of all that panic?" He leaned forward again. "Me. Trying to bake cookies."

The abrupt shift, the sheer absurdity of the King of Hell admitting to such domestic incompetence – culminating in near-evacuation over cookies – seemed to startle Alastor out of his reverie. A short, sharp bark of genuine laughter escaped him, startlingly different from his usual mocking or condescending sounds. It was pure, surprised amusement.

Seeing the genuine mirth light up Alastor's eyes, chasing away the shadow of sadness, Lucifer watched him, an amused smile playing on his own lips. ‘Hell, he's beautiful when he laughs like that’, the thought flashed through Lucifer's mind, unexpected and surprisingly potent.

The shared amusement lingered in the air for a comfortable moment before Alastor’s laughter subsided, though the genuine warmth remained in his eyes. He gestured towards the complex console with a newfound openness.

“You seemed rather overwhelmed by the controls,” Alastor observed, his smile taking on a playful edge. “Come now, let me show you how it works. It’s simpler than it looks, truly.”

Intrigued by the offer and the shift in Alastor’s demeanor, Lucifer readily stood up and moved to stand directly before the vast array of dials and switches. He leaned in slightly, genuinely curious now. “Alright, show me. Where do you even begin with…”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence. Alastor moved smoothly, silently, positioning himself directly behind Lucifer. Suddenly, the space felt incredibly small. Lucifer froze as Alastor leaned in, bringing his chest close, almost brushing against Lucifer’s back. The closeness sent an immediate jolt through him.

Alastor raised his hands, reaching around Lucifer towards the console without actually touching him – yet. The proximity was intense. The fallen angel could feel the faint warmth radiating from the demon behind him, could almost hear the soft intake of breath near his ear. Alastor’s voice came, low and close, barely more than a murmur laced with that radio quality, brushing against Lucifer’s ear.

“This bank here,” Alastor explained softly, gesturing with one long-fingered hand near Lucifer’s shoulder towards a section of illuminated switches, “controls the primary broadcast frequency. Simple toggles, you see? Up for on, down for off. These dials,” his other hand moved near Lucifer’s waist to indicate a set of knobs, “adjust the gain and balance. Finesse is key.”

Lucifer’s breath hitched. His heart was suddenly pounding against his ribs, loud in his own ears. He was acutely aware of the subtle scent that clung to the demon – something unmistakably him, clean and sharp… like pine needles after rain, with an unexpected touch of mint. It was surprisingly clean, deeply distracting.

“R-right,” Lucifer managed, trying to focus on the console instead of the demon practically wrapped around him. “Finesse. Got it. So… which… which button starts the actual transmission?” He squinted at the panel. “The one… the one on the right?”

Alastor didn’t answer immediately. There was a slight pause, a breath of warm air near Lucifer’s neck. Then, instead of just pointing, Alastor’s right hand slowly came down over Lucifer’s own hand where it rested hesitantly near the controls.

It wasn’t a quick or casual touch. Alastor’s long, dark fingers deliberately, sensually curled over Lucifer’s, his palm covering the back of Lucifer’s hand, the slight roughness of his skin and the sharp points of his red claws brushing gently against Lucifer’s knuckles. The contact sent a dizzying shockwave straight through Lucifer, making him gasp softly.

“This one,” Alastor murmured, his voice even lower, leaning so close now that a few stray strands of his crimson hair brushed feather-light against Lucifer’s cheek. With exquisite slowness, still covering Lucifer’s hand with his own, he guided Lucifer’s finger forward, pressing it firmly onto a large, illuminated button.

Lucifer couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. All his senses were filled with the feeling of Alastor’s hand enveloping his, the warmth radiating through him, the low murmur of Alastor’s voice by his ear, that feather-light brush of hair against his skin, and that distracting scent of pine and mint. The simple act of guidance felt impossibly intimate, charged with an energy that had nothing to do with radio waves. He stared down at their joined hands pressing the button, his face burning gold, completely lost in the unexpected, potent sensuality of the moment.

The heavy silence stretched for another beat after the button clicked solidly into place. Alastor slowly withdrew his hand, though Lucifer could have sworn the heat lingered where their skin had touched. Lucifer finally managed to pull in a shaky, deep breath, the air feeling too thick in his lungs. He stared fixedly at the now steadily glowing button, the ghost of Alastor's touch electric against his own fingers.

"Yeah. Uh." He shifted his weight, maybe putting an inch or so between his back and Alastor's chest, though the demon hadn't moved away yet. Lucifer cleared his throat, the sound rough and too loud in the quiet studio, his cheeks burning gold. He finally looked up, though not quite meeting Alastor's eyes directly. "Right. So... should we... uh... record now? Get the announcement done?"

As if sensing the shift back towards the task at hand, Alastor took a small, deliberate step back, putting a sliver of professional distance between them. He straightened slightly, running a hand briefly, almost stiffly, through his crimson hair, the earlier warmth in his eyes receding, replaced by his usual sharp, focused intensity as he settled back into a more professional demeanor. His smile settled back into its familiar, wide curve – professional, yet undeniably sharp.

"Indeed," he stated, his tone regaining its brisk, business-like edge. "Time is wasting. We have an eager audience awaiting news, wouldn't you agree?" He turned fully towards the main console, picking up his microphone cane and gesturing for Lucifer to lean towards the secondary microphone set up beside the chair Alastor had conjured for him.

With practiced ease, Alastor flipped a series of switches on the console. A soft, warm red light labeled 'ON AIR' flickered to life above the main panel. He tapped the head of his microphone cane lightly, leaned towards it, and his entire demeanor shifted subtly, becoming larger-than-life, the consummate performer slipping into place.

"Greetings, sinners and denizens of damnation!" Alastor's voice boomed from the speakers seemingly embedded in the studio walls, rich and dripping with charismatic energy, the familiar radio filter perfectly in place. "This is your host, Alastor, broadcasting live across the infernal airwaves from high atop Pentagram City!" A brief, jaunty, slightly distorted musical jingle played, likely triggered from the console.

"And what a truly special broadcast we have for you this evening, my dear listeners!" Alastor continued, his voice practically purring with theatrical importance. "For I am joined here in the studio, an unprecedented honor I must say, by none other than the esteemed ruler of our damnable domain, the very embodiment of Pride... His Royal Majesty, King Lucifer Morningstar!"

Lucifer, startled by the sudden shift to performance mode and the grandiloquent introduction, blinked into his own microphone. He hadn't expected Alastor to just... start.

"His Majesty," Alastor went on smoothly, seamlessly weaving Lucifer into the broadcast, "has graced us with his presence to share some positively scintillating news regarding that ambitious little venture spearheaded by his delightful daughter, Princess Charlie."

Lucifer cleared his throat again, trying to match Alastor's energy, leaning into the microphone. "Ah! Yes! That's right, Alastor! And thank you for having me," he managed, trying to sound regal and enthusiastic. "We are incredibly excited to officially announce the Grand Reopening Gala for the Hazbin Hotel!"

"Indeed!" Alastor interjected, his voice full of manufactured excitement. "A spectacular evening awaits! A testament to second chances, a beacon of bizarre hope burning bright against the gloom! Join us for a night celebrating the Hotel's triumphant return!"

"There will be music," Lucifer picked up the thread, gaining confidence, "including a truly unique musical performance – top tier, I assure you! – dancing, refreshments..."

"And the unique opportunity," Alastor added, his voice dropping conspiratorially, "to witness firsthand this audacious experiment in redemption! Always entertaining, I find, watching them try. So mark your calendars, polish your horns, and prepare yourselves for the event of the infernal social season, happening—"

KSHHHHHHHK!

A violent burst of harsh static suddenly ripped through the studio speakers, cutting Alastor off mid-word. The jaunty background music dissolved into a high-pitched whine. The warm red 'ON AIR' light flickered erratically, then went dark for a terrifying second before sputtering back on, casting unstable shadows across the console.

Lucifer jumped, startled by the sudden electronic shriek, looking around wildly. "What the hell was—?"

Alastor didn’t flinch, but his body went ramrod straight. His smile tightened into a terrifyingly thin line, eyes narrowing into sharp crimson slits as he glared daggers at the console speakers, his knuckles white where he gripped his microphone cane. He instantly recognized the digital signature of the interference.

Before Lucifer could finish his question, a different voice crackled through the speakers, layered over the spitting static – synthesized, glitchy, and dripping with smug malice.

"Well, well, well... Touching little announcement you two have going on here."

The voice was distorted but unmistakable. Vox.

"The Radio Demon... and King Lucifer? Playing nice for the airwaves?" The voice chuckled, a grating, synthesized sound. "Can't let you two relics hog all the fun. Thought I'd tune in and add my professional opinion!"

A wave of cold fury radiated from Alastor, the air around him feeling dangerously charged. Lucifer stared at the speakers, a mixture of annoyance and disbelief on his face.

Then, Vox's voice culminated in a loud burst of triumphant, malevolent laughter that echoed electronically around the studio, glitching and breaking up, the sound lingering unnervingly in the air.

The 'ON AIR' light continued its unsteady blinking.

Alastor and Lucifer remained frozen for a beat, the unexpected, hostile intrusion still buzzing from the speakers, hanging heavy in the air between them.

Notes:

Evidently, Vox hasn't had enough yet. Who do you all think is gonna win this round?

The next chapter, "Oh, Hell.", will be posted on Thursday.

Chapter 14: Oh, Hell.

The synthesized, glitching laughter finally subsided, leaving a heavy, charged silence in Alastor’s studio, punctuated only by the unsteady flicker of the ‘ON AIR’ light and the low hum of the console. Alastor stood ramrod straight, his knuckles white where he gripped his microphone cane. Cold fury radiated from him in palpable waves, the air thick with barely suppressed static. Lucifer stared at the speakers, annoyance and disbelief warring on his face.

Then, Vox’s voice crackled back through the speakers, no longer just an auditory intrusion but clearly broadcasting live over Alastor’s frequency, hijacking it for his own vindictive message to all of Hell.

“Settle down, settle down, folks!” Vox’s voice boomed, dripping with fake joviality layered over the spitting static. “Vox here, cutting through the cobwebs of your regularly scheduled programming with a much-needed dose of reality!”

The ‘ON AIR’ light steadied, now burning a defiant, intrusive blue – VoxTek blue.

“Now, you might have just heard our esteemed King and… that smiling freak…” – the pause was laden with contempt – “…trying to sell you on some party at that terribly renovated, tacky hovel they’re calling a hotel.” Vox let out another grating chuckle. “Let ol’ Vox give you the real scoop. This ‘grand reopening’?” His voice turned mocking. “It’s for a place with the absolutely ridiculous notion that any of you degenerates can be ‘redeemed’. Hilarious, right?”

Inside the studio, Alastor’s smile tightened into a terrifyingly thin line, his eyes narrowed to crimson slits fixed on the speakers. The low hum of static intensified dramatically, warping the air around him into a visible, crackling shroud of crimson energy, shot through with faint, shifting sigils, reminiscent of his more unrestrained displays of power.

“And who’s helping orchestrate this guaranteed train wreck?” Vox continued, his tone turning sharper, clearly directing his words now, wanting Alastor to hear every syllable. “None other than the Radio Demon himself! Yeah, the dusty old relic who still thinks a hand-crank phonograph is cutting-edge!”

Lucifer felt a flicker of irritation on Alastor’s behalf, crossing his arms. Okay, this TV guy was really starting to piss him off.

“So, let’s talk party,” Vox sneered over the airwaves. “You think it’s gonna be some high-class affair? Please. With Alastor involved? You know what his idea of a good time is? Probably some pathetic group therapy session where Sinners cry about their miserable afterlives before he eats them!” A distorted sound effect mimicking old, skipping record music played briefly. “Get ready for a real snooze-fest, folks! This party’s gonna be a certified flop, the kind of pathetic gathering only the lowest losers in Hell would bother showing up to. Mark my words, having the Radio Demon attached is a guarantee of absolute, archaic failure.”

Lucifer glanced at Alastor. The deer demon remained perfectly still, but the tension coiling in his frame was undeniable. His head was tilted slightly, listening intently, the fixed grin looking more like a snarl carved onto his face, the visible static intensifying around him.

“Right,” Lucifer muttered, annoyed. He wasn’t going to just stand here listening to this second-hand. He needed to see this jackass. With a casual flick of his wrist and a faint shimmer of golden light, a sleek, modern television screen materialized silently against the far wall of the studio. It flickered to life instantly, tuned directly to VoxTek’s channel – 666.

On screen, Vox stood in his own state-of-the-art broadcast studio, looking smugly into the camera. Graphics swirled behind him, reinforcing his mocking points about the hotel’s “failure” and Alastor’s “irrelevance.” He was performing for his audience, reveling in the public denigration, clearly ensuring Alastor knew exactly who was delivering the humiliation.

Alastor’s gaze snapped from the radio speakers to the newly appeared television screen. He watched his rival preen and posture, spewing venom across the airwaves, his wide smile tightening until his sharp, pointed teeth seemed almost to grind together, his eyes burning with a cold, controlled fury that promised retribution. The visible crimson static crackled heavily in the room, a low, dangerous thrum beneath Vox’s ongoing tirade.

Then, with deliberate calm that felt far more dangerous than any outburst, Alastor turned slightly and tapped the head of his own microphone cane. The intrusive VoxTek blue ‘ON AIR’ light above the console flickered violently for a second, then snapped back to the warm, familiar red of Alastor’s broadcast. He had effortlessly regained control of his own airwaves.

He leaned towards his microphone, his smile lethally sharp, his voice smooth as poisoned silk cutting through Vox’s lingering electronic noise.

“My, my, Vox,” Alastor purred into the microphone, his voice dripping with amused condescension, broadcasting clearly once more. “Such desperation! Hijacking my broadcast to sling mud? It seems your own ratings must be truly plummeting if you need to ride my coattails for attention.” He chuckled, a low, staticky sound designed to grate. “And your critiques of the Hazbin Hotel and its upcoming gala? Utterly predictable, pedestrian drivel from a mind obsessed with flickering screens and fleeting trends.”

He paused, letting the silence hang for effect. “You call the party a ‘flop’? A gathering for ‘losers’? How little you know, you flickering simpleton.”

Here, Alastor leaned closer to the microphone, his voice dropping slightly, becoming charged with significance, knowing this would hit Vox where it hurt. “Perhaps your viewers – those few still clinging to your vapid broadcasts – would be interested to know who will be headlining the entertainment for this flop.”

He let the anticipation build, glancing briefly at Lucifer, whose eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Not only will the evening feature unparalleled atmosphere and exquisite refreshments,” Alastor announced, his voice resonating with theatrical importance, “but the main event… will be a truly unique, once-in-an-eternity musical performance. A duet, featuring none other than myself… and His Royal Majesty, Lucifer Morningstar, the King of Hell himself.”

He let that sink in, his grin widening. “Tell me, Vox,” he continued, practically tasting the words, “Do you truly believe the Lord of Pride, the very embodiment of Hell’s hierarchy, would associate his name, his presence, his performance, with anything less than spectacular, roaring success? His standards, I assure you, are far higher than your cheap light shows.”

On the television screen Lucifer had summoned, Vox’s smug grin faltered. His digital eyes widened fractionally, the confident posture seeming to glitch for a split second. The King… performing? With Alastor? The news clearly landed like a physical blow, throwing off Vox’s rhythm.

But the TV Demon recovered quickly, his falter replaced by a surge of renewed, desperate malice. If Alastor wanted to play dirty, Vox would drag him down into the gutter.

“Success?!” Vox spat back, his voice distorting with rage, regaining control of the visual feed on the studio TV even as Alastor held the audio frequency. “You want to talk about success? You want these poor saps listening to put their faith in this loser?”

Vox’s image on the screen shifted. The background graphics dissolved, replaced by grainy, but horribly clear, footage. Battle footage.

“Let’s remind everyone what real power looks like, and who got his ass handed to him when faced with it!” Vox snarled.

The screen filled with images from the Extermination battle – Alastor, in his demonic form, clashing with Adam. Quick cuts showed Adam’s overwhelming holy power, the strike from his axe-shaped guitar cleaving through the air, Alastor being hit, his microphone staff shattering on impact. Then, the final, damning image: Alastor, wounded and visibly shaken, melting into the shadows to flee the fight. Vox made sure to loop the retreat several times, the visual evidence undeniable.

“Still think he’s your guarantee of a good time, folks?” Vox taunted over the visual display. “Or is he just a washed-up coward who runs when things get tough?”

In the studio, the air went deathly still. Alastor froze, his smile locked rigidly in place, but the transformation was instantaneous and devastating. His crimson-tufted ears, usually held alert or twitching with amusement, flattened hard against his skull. Just below his waistcoat line, the small deer tail Lucifer had noticed earlier went ramrod straight, stiff with primal fear – the instinctive reaction of prey sensing mortal danger. He stared at the screen, at his own moment of defeat and retreat played back for all of Hell to potentially see, utterly exposed.

Lucifer saw it all. He saw the footage, heard Vox’s vicious words, but mostly, he saw Alastor. He saw the ears flatten, the subtle but unmistakable stiffening of that usually hidden tail, the sudden, crushing vulnerability behind the still-fixed grin. A surge of protective fury unlike anything he’d felt before coursed through him. He clenched his fists at his sides, knuckles turning white, his gaze fixed murderously on Vox’s image on the screen.

‘That fucking bastard!’ He thought, the curse sharp and venomous in his mind. ‘He crossed the line. Made it personal.’

Seeing Alastor’s usually composed façade crumble, seeing that raw vulnerability exposed by Vox’s cheap shot, flipped a switch in Lucifer. The simmering annoyance he’d felt throughout Vox’s broadcast boiled over into cold fury, but not the kind that called for raw destruction. Oh no. This required something far more satisfying. Vox wanted to play dirty? Fine. Lucifer could play dirty too, but with style. And a healthy dose of irony.

His protective anger towards Alastor morphed into a mischievous, almost gleeful resolve. Enough was enough. Patience? Gone. It was time to shut this obnoxious screen-head down.

Lucifer snapped his fingers–not with a shimmer of gentle gold this time, but with a sharp crack of concentrated power. His eyes glowed with amusement and malicious intent. Forget overpowering Vox’s signal; he’d just paint over it.

Instantly, the humiliating footage of Alastor’s battle vanished from the television screen in the studio. In its place, a new scene flashed into existence, crafted purely from Lucifer’s magic and wickedly sharp sense of humor.

On the screen, a ridiculously rendered image of Vox appeared. He wasn’t in his sleek studio anymore. No, this Vox was lounging awkwardly in a large, old-fashioned porcelain bathtub filled with bubbly water. He was wearing nothing but a pair of tight, bright pink boxer shorts adorned with little red hearts. Surrounding him in the tub was an entire fleet of cheerful yellow rubber ducks. The fake Vox on screen reached out, picked up a duck, and began talking to it in a high-pitched, silly voice.

“Quack quack, Mr. Bubbles!” the fake Vox chirped at the duck. “Are you going to help me take over all of Hell’s media? Yes, you are! Oh yes, you are! Good little ducky!” He then proceeded to make the duck “kiss” another duck, complete with smacking sound effects.

In the studio, Alastor, who had still been rigid with humiliation, blinked at the sudden, bizarre image replacing his defeat. His flattened ears twitched. He stared for a second, processing the sheer, targeted absurdity of Lucifer’s creation.

Then, a choked sound escaped him. It wasn’t static. It wasn’t a forced chuckle. It was a genuine snort of surprised laughter, quickly escalating into a full, rolling cackle dripping with pure, unadulterated glee. He threw his head back, shoulders shaking, absolutely reveling in the sight of his rival portrayed in such an infantile, embarrassing manner.

“Oh, my!” Alastor crowed, wiping a tear from his eye as his laughter subsided into delighted chuckles, leaning towards his microphone to ensure his commentary carried. “Vox, darling, I never knew you had such… tender feelings for bath time! And those shorts! Utterly fetching! Does Valentino know about your little… flock?”

On the screen, the real Vox’s superimposed face (still visible over the fake bath scene Lucifer projected) registered the humiliating illusion. His digital eyes widened in pure horror. His screen flashed violently between static, error codes, and his own sputtering, furious face. The synthesized voice coming through the speakers devolved into incoherent, glitching rage.

“WHAT?! NO! THAT’S NOT—! FAKE! LIES! SHUT IT OFF! I’LL K-K-KILL—!”

But the humiliation was too direct, too public, too perfectly aimed at his ego. The overload was catastrophic. With a final, earsplitting screech of distorted audio and a violent flash of blue-white light, Vox’s screen head went completely black. Dead air. The connection cut. The TV in the studio displayed nothing but darkness.

Alastor’s gaze flickered from the blank screen towards the large studio window that overlooked the sprawling expanse of Pentagram City. Just as his eyes settled on the view, the garish neon signs, streetlights, and glowing billboards across the visible districts extinguished simultaneously, plunging vast swathes of the city into abrupt, shocking darkness. A satisfied, razor-sharp grin spread across Alastor’s face. History, it seemed, had repeated itself.

Alastor stepped smoothly back towards his microphone, the visible crimson static around him having completely subsided, replaced by an aura of utter confidence. He tapped the microphone head lightly.

“Well, well,” Alastor’s voice purred into the microphone, smooth as velvet and dripping with satisfaction, reclaiming the airwaves after the abrupt cutoff. “It seems that pathetic wannabe picture-show star has experienced… technical difficulties.” He chuckled softly, a sound rich with mockery. “How utterly disappointing. All that flash, all that noise, yet he simply cannot withstand the pressure when faced with truly superior entertainment, can he?” His gaze flickered towards Lucifer, acknowledging his partner in this little broadcast coup. “A shame he couldn’t stay tuned… once again.”

He straightened, his voice regaining its full, charismatic broadcaster’s energy, now directed fully at the listeners across Hell. “But his little interruption does serve as a rather… emphatic prelude to our main announcement!”

He gestured invitingly towards Lucifer, who stepped up beside him, sharing the microphone’s range, his earlier annoyance replaced by a confident, regal bearing.

“Indeed!” Lucifer chimed in, his voice clear and carrying the weight of his authority. “Let’s get back to the real news, shall we?”

“Mark your calendars, sinners!” Alastor declared, his voice blending seamlessly with Lucifer’s in a practiced, powerful harmony. “You are all cordially invited to the Grand Reopening Gala of the Hazbin Hotel!”

“An evening of music, refreshments, and perhaps even a glimmer of hope!” Lucifer added, a genuine smile in his voice.

“Featuring,” Alastor concluded, his tone filled with irresistible promise, “a truly unforgettable, once-in-an-eternity performance by yours truly… and the King of Hell himself.”

“We eagerly await your presence!” they announced together, their voices merging into a final, triumphant sign-off.

Alastor leaned slightly closer to the microphone one last time, his voice smooth and inviting. “And until that glorious evening, my dear listeners,” he purred, “allow me to leave you with a few timeless hits.”

Instantly, the energetic, slightly crackling sounds of a 1930s big band tune filled the studio speakers. With a decisive flick of a switch on the console, Alastor cut the feed. The music abruptly ceased in the studio, leaving only silence and the satisfying hum of victory in the air as he and Lucifer shared a final, triumphant look.

Alastor’s gaze flickered briefly towards the now-dark television screen still hanging on the far wall. With a faint tap of his microphone cane against it and a disdainful expression, Alastor rid his studio of the offensive object — the screen vanished into nothingness with a barely audible hiss of static.

 Lucifer let out a soft breath and shifted his weight slightly from one foot to the other. The adrenaline from the broadcast confrontation faded, leaving behind the lingering awareness of being alone with Alastor in his private studio.

“Well, that’s done,” Lucifer said, offering Alastor a slightly uncertain smile. He hooked a thumb vaguely over his shoulder. “Guess I should head out… Yeah.”

Not quite knowing what else to say now that their task was finished, he started to turn away from the console, taking a couple of steps back towards the center of the room.

“Luci, wait.”

Lucifer paused mid-step, and turned to face Alastor with a questioning look.

Alastor hadn’t moved from his spot near the console, but his posture seemed tighter now, the relaxed air from the broadcast victory replaced by a familiar stiffness.

Then, with a subtle shimmer of crimson static at his side, a package materialized in Alastor’s hand. It was elegantly wrapped in crisp white paper, tied precisely with a rich red velvet ribbon. Lucifer blinked, surprised by the sudden appearance of the object.

Alastor took a hesitant step forward, holding the package out. A faint crimson flush crept up his neck, visible even in the dim studio light. He avoided Lucifer’s direct gaze, his smile looking perhaps a fraction strained.

“This is for you,” Alastor stated, his voice maintaining its smooth cadence, though perhaps a touch quieter than usual. He cleared his throat softly. “Given recent events… it seemed an appropriate time.”

Lucifer stared at the proffered gift, then up at Alastor’s face, noting the distinct blush staining the demon’s high cheekbones. He felt a jolt of pure astonishment. “For me?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. As the question left his lips, his eyes widened, properly focusing on the package for the first time. White paper… red ribbon. ‘My colours,’ the thought registered with another wave of surprise.

Alastor finally met his eyes, though his gaze flickered away almost immediately. “Is there anyone else present, Lucifer?” he countered, a hint of dry impatience entering his tone, clearly deflecting. “Proceed. Open it.”

Hesitantly, Lucifer reached out and took the package. The wrapping felt expensive beneath his fingertips. He handled it carefully, slowly undoing the red ribbon and peeling back the white paper with deliberate slowness, half-expecting something absurd or unpleasant to spring out – a snake, a spring-loaded boxing glove, a tiny Vox doll programmed to insult him. Old habits died hard.

But beneath the paper was smooth, polished red wood. His breath caught. He pulled the rest of the wrapping away, revealing the vintage record player from the antique shop window. The one with the ducks and fawns.

He ran his fingers reverently over the intricate carvings on the lid, tracing the whimsical shapes of the cheerful ducks mingled with the graceful, stylized fawns. His heart swelled with a sudden, sharp emotion that tightened his throat.

“It’s… it’s the record player,” he breathed, looking up at Alastor, his eyes shining, his voice thick with emotion. “The one we saw. You… you remembered.” He looked back down at the beautiful object, then met Alastor’s gaze again, a trembling smile spreading across his face. “Al… it’s simply wonderful. I… I—” He struggled for words, the sheer thoughtfulness of the gesture overwhelming him. “Thank you.”

Alastor’s blush deepened dramatically at the raw emotion in Lucifer’s voice and the brilliance of his smile. He looked sharply away towards the console, adjusting his bowtie unnecessarily. “It is merely… reciprocity,” he stated stiffly, clearly trying to regain control and downplay the significance. “A way to thank you for entrusting the party announcement to my… superior methods. And to return the sentiment of the… the duck.”

Lucifer clutched the record player a little tighter, looking down at the polished wood and the whimsical carvings. Alastor’s flimsy excuse barely registered. He felt overwhelmed, unsure of what to say. It wasn't just the gift itself, though it was perfect. It was… more. A quiet realization settled over him, simple and clear: others didn't really give him presents. Everyone knew he was the King of Hell, capable of conjuring anything he could possibly want with his magic. Because of that, he supposed, most just assumed giving him something tangible was… superfluous. It struck him that even Charlie likely fell into that way of thinking. This simple, unexpected gift from Alastor – something chosen, something remembered – felt impossibly significant because of it.

He looked up, his eyes still bright with unshed tears, meeting Alastor’s averted gaze. “It’s just…” Lucifer began, his voice thick and hesitant, struggling to articulate the wave of feeling. “People don’t really… give me things.” He offered a small, watery smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They figure… y’know… King of Hell… I can just… poof… whatever I want.” He shrugged slightly, a gesture reflecting this simple acceptance of fact. “So… getting this… something someone actually chose…” He trailed off, swallowing hard.

Alastor, who had remained rigidly facing the console, slowly turned back at the raw vulnerability in Lucifer’s voice. The surprise was evident on his face, his crimson eyes widening slightly as he took in Lucifer’s open emotion. The reason for the King’s deep reaction wasn’t just the object; it was the act itself, the rarity of being given something thoughtful. Understanding dawned in Alastor’s expression, chasing away his own lingering embarrassment, replaced by a profound stillness. He felt a conviction settle within him – giving this gift, this specific object Lucifer had admired, had been unequivocally the right thing to do.

He met Lucifer’s swimming golden gaze directly now, his own eyes losing their usual guardedness, becoming deep, intense pools of crimson. His voice, when he spoke, was quite resonant with unexpected gravity.

"Magic can replicate form, Lucifer," Alastor said softly, holding his gaze steady. "But it cannot replicate sentiment. Or memory." He paused, his eyes perhaps flickering briefly down to the record player Lucifer held so carefully. "Some things," he continued, the words carrying weight, "have value not because they exist, but because they were chosen. Remembered. And gifted."

Lucifer absorbed Alastor’s words, the quiet intensity behind them settling something deep within him. He looked down again at the record player clutched in his hands, his thumb gently tracing the outline of a carved fawn swimming beside a cheerful duck. A soft, almost watery chuckle escaped him, breaking the heavy silence.

He glanced up at Alastor, a small, wry smile touching his lips, though his eyes still held the lingering warmth of emotion. "Ducks and fawns, huh?" he murmured, tapping the engraving lightly. "An unlikely pair, wouldn't you say?"

Alastor's gaze softened as it rested on the engraving, a complex mix of amusement and something warmer swirling in his eyes. "Indeed," he murmured, his voice low. "The duck... quite clumsy, isn't it? Always making a racket, tripping over air." He gave a soft, dry chuckle. "Utterly chaotic." He looked back at Lucifer, a playful, knowing glint entering his eyes as he leaned in just a fraction, deliberately lowering his voice to a near whisper, enjoying the anticipation. "And yet," he continued, the static a mere breath beneath the word, "one suspects the fawn finds that very chaos rather... cute."

That word, spoken by the Radio Demon, landed like a physical blow. A fierce blush immediately flooded Lucifer's face, spreading gold from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, leaving him staring for a moment, speechless and completely flustered by the deliberate, affectionate teasing.

Trying to regain some composure, he cleared his throat. "Okay," he said, the word coming out a little breathless, though he managed to keep his voice steady. "I should… really get this somewhere safe. And let you get back to…" He gestured vaguely at the impressive studio around them. "Thank you again, Al. For… remembering."

"Until later, Luci," the deer demon replied, his voice soft, the nickname slipping out naturally this time, holding a quiet warmth.

With a final nod, Lucifer took one last quick glance back. Alastor met his gaze, his usual wide smile firmly in place, yet Lucifer saw something else this time, something he wouldn't have recognized just days ago. Beneath the practiced curve of Alastor’s lips, there was a lingering softness, a warmth in his crimson eyes – a subtle tenderness that the smile couldn't quite conceal. ‘So much in those eyes,’ Lucifer thought fleetingly. Acknowledging that newfound nuance with a final, small inclination of his head, Lucifer turned carefully and headed towards the door leading to the spiral staircase, carrying his unexpected, deeply meaningful gift.

 

---

 

 

The heavy door clicked shut behind him, the sound swallowed by the sudden quiet of his own tower suite. Lucifer leaned back against the solid wood for a moment, the vintage record player clutched carefully, almost reverently, in his hands. He felt… fizzy. Like champagne bubbles were zipping through his veins, a heady mix of adrenaline from the broadcast showdown, the potent satisfaction of Vox’s spectacular shutdown, and the warm, startling significance of the gift currently pressed against his chest.

He pushed off the door, practically floating across the plush carpet towards the main living area of his suite. The record player. His record player. He ran his fingers over the smooth, polished red wood again, tracing the whimsical dance of ducks and fawns engraved on the lid. Alastor had remembered.

A wide, irrepressible grin spread across Lucifer’s face. He felt lighter than he had in centuries, that strange, buoyant energy he’d noticed lately surging through him tenfold. He carefully set the record player down on a low table, his eyes gleaming. Music. It needed music.

With a snap of his fingers, a small selection of vinyl records appeared beside it. He paused, considering. What fit this bizarre, wonderful mood? Not his usual melancholic orchestrations. Something… different. His eyes landed on a jaunty, upbeat jazz record, something with brass and energy. Something Alastor might almost approve of, the traitorous thought flared in his mind before he could stop it. Perfect.

He handled the vinyl with surprising care, placing it on the turntable and gently lowering the needle. The first notes crackled to life, bright and infectious, filling the opulent room. Lucifer couldn’t help it; a chuckle escaped him, and he started to move.

Just a little bounce at first, then a smooth spin on the carpet, his coat swirling around him. He felt ridiculous, utterly, gloriously ridiculous. He gestured towards the various shelves and surfaces where his multitude of ducks resided. With a playful spark of magic, a handful of the cheerful, yellow rubber ducks lifted into the air, bobbing excitedly around him like buoyant, squeaky satellites.

“Come on then!” Lucifer laughed, spinning amongst the floating flock. The ducks bumped gently against each other, drifting in lazy circles and figure-eights to the rhythm, their fixed smiles seeming to share his joy. He gave one a gentle nudge, sending it bobbing towards another as he twirled past, conducting their chaotic aerial dance. He spun faster, giddy, the room a blur of gold, velvet, and bobbing yellow figures, the jazz a vibrant counterpoint to the frantic, happy beating of his own heart.

Finally, breathless and still grinning, he let the ducks settle back onto their perches with a final wave and slowed, sinking onto the edge of a luxurious chaise lounge near the record player, the music washing over him. He sighed, a deep, almost shuddering sound of pure release, letting his head fall back against the cushions. Euphoric. Was this what euphoria felt like?

His gaze drifted back to the record player, his fingers tracing the carved fawn beside a duck. His mind, unbidden, replayed the day. Alastor, leaning in close at the console, that scent of pine and mint invading his senses. Alastor, talking about his mother, that brief, heart-wrenching flicker of loss in his eyes before it was masked. His own surge of fierce, protective anger when Vox had attacked. Alastor’s surprising blush when offering the gift, the way he’d averted his gaze, the stiffness betraying the vulnerability beneath. The softness in his eyes just now, the quiet warmth in his voice calling him Luci.

Sentiment. Memory. Chosen. Gifted. Alastor’s words echoed in his head.

It wasn’t just the events, Lucifer realized. It was him. The strange lightness he’d felt lately, the fizzing energy, this overwhelming sense of… something… it always intensified around Alastor. And where before there might have been only irritation, now there was fascination. Pure admiration. This baffling, overwhelming warmth. The undeniable urge to see past the static and the smile, to understand the demon who could be both infuriatingly controlled and surprisingly vulnerable. The one who remembered ducks and fawns in a shop window.

The music seemed to fade into the background as the pieces clicked into place with sudden, shocking clarity.

Lucifer sat bolt upright on the chaise, his eyes wide, the earlier giddy energy vanishing, replaced by stunned silence. The smile dropped from his face.

It wasn’t just camaraderie born of a curse. It wasn’t just relief at finding an unlikely ally for Charlie. It wasn’t just amusement or fascination or even friendship.

This feeling churning inside him, this potent mix of protectiveness, possessiveness, confusion, and this overwhelming, buoyant joy… it was directed entirely, irrevocably, at the infuriating, fascinating, ridiculously fluffy-tailed Radio Demon.

Oh.

His breath hitched. He stared blankly ahead, the jazz record spinning obliviously on the turntable beside him.

Oh, Hell.

He brought a hand up slowly to cover his mouth, the golden blush returning with a vengeance, not from embarrassment this time, but from the sheer, earth-shattering weight of the realization.

Gods. I’m… The thought felt seismic, terrifying, exhilarating.

I’m in love with him.

Lucifer was in love with Alastor. There was no denying it anymore, not even to himself.

 

 

Notes:

A/N: Just a quick heads-up — there won’t be a new chapter next week, since I’ll be busy writing for RadioApple Week, happening on June 23rd! I’m really excited — I’ve only been posting stories on AO3 for about two months, and this is my first time joining a fan event. Can’t wait to share what I’m working on!

Chapter 15: Dressed to Impress (and Possibly Distress)

Notes:

Sorry for the delay—RadioApple Week kidnapped my time and ran off with my energy! But I’ve fought it off and returned, fully recharged and ready to roll. 😎
Happy reading!

Lucifer hummed, adjusting the crisp white cuffs of his shirt for the tenth time. Okay, maybe the eleventh.

This wasn’t just any shirt; it was one of his good ones, silkier than usual, paired with his sharpest waistcoat—the one with the subtle gold brocade that usually only saw the light of day for state dinners he couldn’t weasel out of.

He even added the matching gold cufflinks shaped like tiny, elegant apples. His apple-topped cane rested against the nearby vanity; he picked it up, giving the bright red apple a quick, almost absentminded polish on his sleeve until it gleamed under the soft lighting of his suite. Perfect. A kingneeded his accessories, after all.

Why the sudden sartorial splendor? Well. Reasons. Important, top-tier, King-of-Hell reasons that definitely, absolutely did not involve a certain infuriatingly charming, ridiculously fluffy-tailed Radio Demon who had somehow wormed his way into Lucifer’s thoughts (and heart, apparently—damn it all).

No, this was purely about maintaining regal standards. In the Hazbin Hotel. Right.

Taking a deep breath that did little to quell the fizzy, nervous energy bubbling inside him since yesterday’s… revelations (and that gift), he gave his cane a confident twirl and headed for the door. Showtime.

He descended the main staircase, trying to project an air of casual regality, definitely not scanning the lobby with laser-like focus. His gaze swept past Niffty blurring near the baseboards in pursuit of filth, past Cherri Bomb lounging nearby, sipping a luridly colored cocktail, towards the bar where Husk was wiping down the counter—and then stopped.

There. At the bar. Alastor.

He was perched on a stool, impossibly elegant even in the morning light filtering through the spotless windows. In one hand, he held a notebook—one covered in glittery rainbows and stickers that screamed Charlie—and he appeared to be discussing something in it with Husk, tapping a clawed finger against a page.

The sight of him, focused and so effortlessly present, made Lucifer’s heart give a sudden, frantic leap against his ribs, accelerating into an unsteady rhythm. Perfect. He could just casually stroll over…

“Dad!”

Lucifer froze mid-stride, his carefully planned casual approach shattering. Charlie bounced towards him, Vaggie trailing closely behind, looking apparently even more exhausted than usual, the stress of the party preparations likely weighing on her.

“Morning, Dad!” Charlie beamed, her eyes immediately widening as she took in his appearance. “Wow! You look… really fancy today! What’s the occasion?”

Even Vaggie raised a surprised eyebrow, her exhaustion momentarily overridden by a flicker of surprise at his attire.

Lucifer felt a hot blush creep up his neck. Abort! Abort! “Oh! This old thing?” he stammered, giving an airy, dismissive wave at his clothes and forcing an embarrassed chuckle. “Just, you know… upholding appearances!”

He needed a distraction. Now. Dad joke incoming! “Speaking of fancy events,” he declared with forced brightness, “what should a duck wear to one?”

Charlie tilted her head, playing along. “What, Dad?”

“A duck-sedo!” Lucifer crowed, laughing perhaps a little too loudly at his own brilliance.

Charlie let out the groan-laugh combo that was the universal signal for a truly awful dad joke.

 

Meanwhile, a few yards away at the bar...

Alastor tapped a claw against the offensively bright, glitter-dusted cover of Charlie’s notebook. Honestly, the sheer chromatic assault of the thing was enough to give anyone a headache.

Still, a favor for dear Charlie was a favor, especially one that involved ensuring the party’s bar was adequately stocked—a task requiring a certain level of discerning taste, which Husk, bless his grumpy heart, occasionally lacked when left entirely to his own devices.

“So,” Alastor drawled, scanning the scrawled list under ‘Essential Spirits,’ “we appear adequately supplied with rye whiskey, but the bourbon selection is tragically pedestrian. We’ll need at least three more top-shelf varieties.” He made a neat checkmark with the ridiculously fluffy-topped pen Charlie had also provided.

Husk merely grunted, polishing a glass with more vigor than necessary. His gaze, however, flickered toward the lobby entrance across the room.

“Huh. Look at that,” Husk commented gruffly, nodding vaguely toward the distant figures of Lucifer, Charlie, and Vaggie. “King’s really done himself up this morning. What’s the deal, think he’s got some big meeting with the other Sins later? Trying to look the part?”

Alastor followed Husk’s gaze. Lucifer. Standing there bathed in the lobby’s dim light, looking… unexpectedly sharp. The waistcoat fit him impeccably, the pristine white shirt made his hair seem even brighter, and the polished cane added an air of refined authority.

Alastor tilted his head slightly, feigning casual observation while internally… appreciating the view more than he’d ever admit. The King certainly cleaned up well when he put in the effort.

That strange, insistent fluttering sensation stirred low in his stomach again, an unwelcome physical reaction he couldn't rationally explain but consistently associated with the King's presence lately.

Just then, Lucifer threw his head back and laughed—a genuine, light sound that carried across the lobby.

A confusing warmth bloomed in Alastor's chest, illogical and entirely unwelcome, adding another layer to the baffling physical responses the King seemed to provoke in him.

He watched, and without conscious thought, the sharp points of his usual smile seemed to retract slightly. His eyes softened, losing some of their usual manic energy, and his grin settled into a more relaxed, closed-mouth curve, holding a hint of private amusement, almost fond.

The shift, however subtle, didn't go unnoticed. Cherri Bomb, who had been idly swirling her cocktail nearby, caught the momentary change in the Radio Demon’s expression. Her single eye widened almost imperceptibly, and a slow, sly grin spread across her face as she remembered the ongoing bet.

She shot Husk a knowing look accompanied by a lopsided smirk.
“Damn,” Cherri drawled, leaning forward slightly on her stool, her voice pitched just loud enough for Alastor to hear clearly. “Lucifer’s lookin’ like a real hot daddy today, huh? Look at him over there, joking with his kid.” She let out a low whistle. “Total DILF!"

She then swiveled on her stool, planting an elbow on the bar and resting her cheek dramatically in her hand, turning her gaze fully onto Alastor. Her grin was pure, mischievous calculation. “Don’t you think so too, Mr. Radio?”

Alastor blinked, his smile remaining perfectly fixed, though Cherri’s crass remark clearly registered. D.I.L.F.? The unfamiliar acronym hung in the air. He tilted his head, a silent beat passing as he processed the term, his eyebrows arching slightly over otherwise politely blank eyes. Confusing. Much like his own current internal state regarding the King.

“Forgive my ignorance, my dear,” Alastor inquired, his voice regaining its smooth, precise cadence, though perhaps laced with a touch of genuine curiosity beneath the usual radio filter. “But ‘DILF’? I confess I’m unfamiliar with the term.”

Cherri’s sly grin widened into a full-blown, shark-like smirk. Oh, this was too good. She leaned even closer across the bar, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial, deliberately crude whisper that was still perfectly audible to both Alastor and Husk.

“It means ‘Dad I’d Like to Fuck,’” she stated plainly, enunciating each word with relish, her eye gleaming with pure, unadulterated mischief.

For a split second, absolute silence reigned. Then, as if something in his brain had short-circuited, a high-pitched SKREEEEEEECH of microphone feedback erupted directly from Alastor’s general direction, sharp enough to make Husk jump and nearly drop his glass.
The static around the Radio Demon momentarily fuzzed erratically, like a badly tuned radio skipping stations. His eyes snapped wide behind his plastered-on smile.

“What?” The word ripped out like a delayed, static-laden record scratch, utterly bewildered and devoid of his usual control.

Husk slapped a weary paw over his entire face in a resounding facepalm. He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Fucking chaos demons… give me strength.”
Forsaking the glass he’d been polishing entirely, he reached under the counter, pulled out a half-empty bottle of cheap booze, and took a long, despairing swig directly from the neck.

Cherri watched Alastor’s glitching reaction with undisguised glee. Seeing she hadn’t actually been vaporized on the spot for her definition, she decided to press her luck, though perhaps dialing back the intensity just a notch to avoid truly ending up as a lampshade.
She batted her eyelashes innocently (or as innocently as Cherri Bomb could manage).

“So, anyway, Red,” she chirped, her voice regaining a lighter, teasing tone, “what’s the verdict on the Big Boss then? You gotta admit, he’s got a certain charm, wouldn’t you say?”

The question seemed to snap Alastor back to himself. The frantic static subsided instantly, smoothing back into its low, ambient hum.

He visibly composed himself, straightening slightly on the stool, the brief, comical loss of control vanishing as if it had never happened. His smile sharpened, regaining its familiar, predatory edge, though perhaps a touch tighter with annoyance—both at Cherri’s audacity and his own momentary lapse.

He turned his gaze slowly toward Cherri, eyes narrowed into amused, condescending crescents.

"My dear girl," Alastor began, his voice dripping with cultivated disdain, deliberately ignoring her specific question for a moment. "Given that... interesting, albeit remarkably vulgar, enlightenment you just provided," he added, gesturing vaguely as if referring back to her earlier crass explanation, "must your observations remain so relentlessly crude?"

He then waved a dismissive hand, finally glancing toward Lucifer across the lobby—who was still obliviously chatting with Charlie and Vaggie. "As for the King... dressed in all that finery, the little fellow resembles nothing so much as an overlarge, gilded circus clown."

He leaned slightly toward Cherri, his voice dropping conspiratorially, laced with pure, undiluted mockery. “And regarding any supposed 'charm,' let’s just say his grasp on true elegance rather… falls short, wouldn’t you agree?”

Cherri let out a puff of air that was half laugh, half scoff, her sly grin widening as she playfully rolled her eye. “Ouch, Red,” she commented lightly, still leaning on the bar. “That one was actually kinda mean.”

Alastor barely registered her comment. Internally, a jolt went through him, entirely different from the earlier shock. ‘What?’

He replayed his own words mentally. Circus clown. Falls short. The insults had come out perfectly. Cleanly. Utterly devoid of the curse’s nauseating, positive filter. He hadn’t been forced to compliment the King’s ridiculous attire or find some redeeming quality in his diminutive stature. He had said exactly what he intended.

He quickly pushed the thought aside, not wanting to dwell on the mechanics of the blasted enchantment. Perhaps, he mused briefly, the distance was the key? The magic only held its sway when they were in closer proximity? It seemed a plausible, if convenient, explanation.

Yet, even as the thought formed, a faint, unsettling flicker of uncertainty ran beneath it, tinged with a vague sense of bad premonition suggesting it wasn’t quite that simple. He ignored it, refocusing his attention outward with practiced ease.

Ignoring the faint sense of unease prickling beneath his thoughts, Alastor gave Cherri a final, dismissive glance and pushed himself smoothly off the barstool. He tucked Charlie’s glittery notebook under his arm.

“Well then,” he announced briskly to the pair at the bar, “do try to keep the establishment from descending into utter chaos in my absence.” He gave Husk a curt nod. “Always a pleasure, old chum.”
Without waiting for a response, Alastor turned and strode purposefully across the lobby toward where Lucifer stood with Charlie and Vaggie.

As Lucifer saw Alastor approaching them, his breath hitched almost imperceptibly. A bright, pleased expression instantly lit up his face.

He straightened almost automatically, suddenly hyper-aware of Alastor closing the distance, making his heart hammer against his ribs. His hand tightened slightly on his cane, and he shifted his weight almost imperceptibly, trying desperately to project nonchalance as he observed silently while the Radio Demon stopped before Charlie.

Alastor offered Charlie a polite inclination of his head. “My dear Charlie,” he began, his voice smooth and professional, holding up the notebook slightly. “Regarding the bar inventory for the party—consider it assessed. I’ve noted the necessary acquisitions for Husker to procure.”

Charlie’s face broke into a relieved grin. “Oh, Alastor, thank you so much! That’s wonderful!” Her gaze flickered between him and her father, her expression softening with genuine appreciation. “Really, thank you both. For everything you’re doing to help with the party. It… it means a lot.”

Impulsively, Charlie threw her arms around Lucifer in a quick, heartfelt hug. Lucifer blinked in surprise, his awkwardness around Alastor momentarily forgotten, replaced by a surge of warmth as he returned the embrace, patting his daughter’s back gently. He absolutely cherished these moments of recognition from her.

Pulling back just as quickly, Charlie beamed at them both. She then glanced at Vaggie, who gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Actually,” Charlie continued, looking back at Alastor and Lucifer, “Vaggie and I were just about to head out. We’ve got the tasting appointment at Damnation Dishes Catering—thanks again for managing to squeeze us in with them!” she added gratefully. “Gotta make sure the hors d’oeuvres are absolutely perfect!”

With a final, beaming smile directed at both of them, Charlie hooked her arm through Vaggie’s. “We’ll see you two later!”

Vaggie’s gaze lingered for a moment, her eye narrowing slightly as she took in Lucifer’s still-too-focused attention on Alastor. A subtle frown tightened her lips before she turned without a word, allowing Charlie to pull her toward the hotel’s main entrance. The heavy doors swung shut behind them, leaving Lucifer and Alastor standing alone in the suddenly quieter section of the lobby.

Lucifer stood frozen for a beat, hyper-aware of Alastor standing just a few feet away. Alone. They were alone. ‘Oh, Hell.’ Panic, potent and immediate, seized him. His mind raced, desperately searching for something, anything, normal to say, but all coherent thought seemed to have evaporated, replaced by the frantic hammering of his heart and the overwhelming awareness of the Radio Demon’s proximity.

“Hey,” Lucifer managed finally, the word coming out sounding weak and ridiculously casual, even to his own ears. He immediately winced internally. ‘Hey? Really? Smooth, Lucifer, real smooth.’ A faint golden blush dusted his cheeks at his own awkwardness.

Alastor turned his head slightly toward him, his smile holding that unreadable, faintly amused edge. Remembering Husk’s earlier comment, he tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over Lucifer’s noticeably formal attire once more. “Off to that important meeting then, are we?” he inquired, his tone light.

Lucifer blinked, caught completely off guard. The internal panic spiked. ‘What is he talking about?’ “Uh?” he responded intelligently. “What meeting?”

Alastor’s ear gave a slight, dismissive flick. Lucifer’s gaze zeroed in on the tiny movement, the way the crimson fur seemed to catch the light. ‘So soft…’ his traitorous mind supplied, even as the rest of Alastor’s words hit him.

“The one with the Sins, I presumed?” he clarified, a knowing glint in his eye. “Given the rather… distinct effort in your wardrobe this morning.”

Lucifer’s face instantly flooded with heat, the gold blush returning with a vengeance. ‘Too much? Was this too much? Fuck.’ He waved a frantic hand, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Oh! That! No! No meeting!” he denied, perhaps a little too quickly, forcing a strained chuckle. “Nope! Nowhere to be! Just… felt like dressing up! King’s prerogative, you know!”

‘Fuck!’ His mind screamed silently again. ‘Could this get any worse?’

Alastor’s smile widened slightly, clearly unconvinced. He tilted his head again, a picture of polite curiosity that somehow felt intensely scrutinizing. “Just ‘felt like dressing up’?” he echoed smoothly. “For what specific occasion, might I ask?”

Lucifer found himself momentarily mesmerized by the slight tilt of Alastor’s head, the way his crimson eyes seemed to gleam with amusement. He snapped his focus back abruptly. Occasion? ‘Damn. At this rate, my own funeral! I’m digging my own grave here, yep.’ Panic surged. ‘Think, Lucifer, think!’
“Oh! The occasion!” Lucifer blurted out, plastering on a bright, hopefully convincing smile. “Why, the extremely important, top-priority occasion of… uh… planning the party decorations, of course! Gotta look the part for creative inspiration!” ‘Ugh, seriously? That’s the best I could do?’

Alastor’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes seemed to sharpen slightly, his head tilting almost imperceptibly as he processed the excuse. The explanation was laughably thin, yet Alastor merely gave a slow, deliberate blink, choosing not to call Lucifer out directly on the absurdity.

"Ah, yes. The decorations," Alastor said smoothly, outwardly accepting the explanation. "A most vital component of any successful gala." He paused for a beat. "We still have much to discuss on that front. Perhaps we could convene in, shall we say, one hour? In the main parlor?"

Lucifer barely registered the words about meeting later. His mind stalled completely as Alastor suddenly took that step closer. Too close. Alastor’s hand lifted, reaching directly toward his shoulder… his face leaning closer too, those crimson eyes suddenly looming large, filling Lucifer’s vision. Lucifer’s thoughts short-circuited. What was he doing? Was he…? The unspoken question hung, terrifying and exhilarating, leaving him utterly frozen as Alastor’s fingers brushed feather-light against the fabric of his waistcoat.

The unexpected contact, however slight and innocent, shattered the suspended moment. It sent a jolt like static electricity straight through Lucifer, and he flinched violently, sucking in a sharp, startled gasp and stumbling back half a step, his carefully constructed façade of nonchalance completely shattering.

Alastor retracted his hand smoothly, holding up the minuscule speck of white fuzz he’d plucked off. He looked from the fuzz back to the utterly flustered, wide-eyed King, his own smile perfectly composed. His head tilted almost imperceptibly, his eyes reflecting simple confusion at the King’s strange reaction.

“There,” Alastor stated simply, his tone maddeningly neutral as he let the lint drift away. “You had a spot.”

Alastor’s maddeningly neutral tone hit Lucifer harder than the initial flinch. Oh. Oh. Just lint. Not… not anything else. The realization crashed down, bringing with it a fresh, tidal wave of mortification. His face, already warm, felt like it was actually radiating heat now.

He brought a hand up, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. A loud, slightly strained laugh burst out of him. “Right!” he exclaimed, perhaps a bit too forcefully, desperate to cover his earlier ridiculous reaction.

In his flustered state, as his hand swept back toward his neck, the edge of his hand itself caught the brim of his pristine white top hat. The hat tumbled from his head, landing with a soft, muffled thump on the polished lobby floor.

“Fuck!” Lucifer hissed under his breath, the sound drowned out by his own ongoing, mortified chuckle. He immediately bent down, snatching up the hat, his cheeks burning an impossible shade of gold. He straightened up, clutching the hat maybe a little too tightly, pointedly avoiding Alastor’s gaze and trying to dust off imaginary specks, feeling utterly foolish.

Alastor watched the entire display—the jumpiness, the awkward laugh, the tumbling hat—with an eyebrow slightly arched. The corner of his smile twitched, sharp and amused. “Clumsy as ever, I see,” he observed dryly, the comment landing with pinpoint accuracy on Lucifer’s already frayed nerves.

As the words left his lips, sharp and unfiltered, Alastor’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. His smile remained fixed, but a visible flicker of shock registered in his crimson gaze—the curse hadn't kicked in, not even this close.

But Lucifer, still grappling with the sheer mortification of having dropped his hat like a fool right in front of the demon he was desperately trying not to impress, missed Alastor’s subtle reaction entirely. He barely registered the comment itself beyond the familiar dry tone, too consumed by his own churning embarrassment and the desperate need to escape.

He finished straightening his hat, jamming it back onto his head, still avoiding direct eye contact. “Right, well,” he mumbled quickly, already turning away. “See you later then. For the… decorations. I’m going now.”

He practically fled toward the corridor leading to his tower, muttering dejectedly under his breath just loud enough for only himself to hear,

“…and take what little is left of my tattered pride with me.”

 

---

 

The heavy silence of the lobby pressed in as Lucifer vanished down the corridor. Alastor stood alone for a silent moment, his gaze fixed on the empty space where the King had stood.

Then, turning smoothly away from the corridor Lucifer had fled down, Alastor allowed the shadows at his feet to coalesce. With a subtle ripple of darkness that drew no attention in the sparsely populated lobby, he dissolved into shadow.

He rematerialized moments later within the familiar, dimly lit confines of his tower room, the transition seamless, silent. The familiar scent of the bayou filled the air.

It was only here, enveloped by the quiet privacy of his own domain, that the chilling implication of his unfiltered parting remark truly struck him. That dryness, that precise barb delivered without impediment… just like the "circus clown" comment earlier.

The curse hadn’t intervened. It hadn't twisted his words into some unwanted, saccharine compliment.

‘It’s gone.’

The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. He stood stock-still in the center of his room, the usual poised energy draining away. A strange coldness seeped into his limbs. His ears, those ever-expressive indicators he usually kept under meticulous control, flattened hard against his skull.

‘No.’ The thought was sharp, insistent. Slowly, his hands lifted, pressing fingers hard against his cheeks, covering the lower half of his face, hiding the smile that suddenly felt like a grotesque rictus. Static crackled faintly around him, uncontrolled.

‘When? How?’ His mind frantically scanned the recent past. The Music Room. Last night. Lucifer offering that ridiculous crimson duck. He remembered taking it, their fingers brushing. The inexplicable jolt, like warm static. And the faint, distant chime of bells he’d dismissed at the time. Strange phenomena, yes, but he hadn't understood their significance then, too caught up in the sheer internal turmoil and baffling warmth the interaction had provoked.

Only now, connecting those peculiar signals to the undeniable evidence of his recently unfiltered speech, did the horrifying truth become clear. The curse must have broken then.

His hands dropped. The smile snapped back, wide—perhaps wider than usual—stretched painfully tight. But his eyes reflected the dawning truth. The magic was gone. The flimsy, infuriating, necessary magical imperative forcing them together… broken.

He was free.

Lucifer would realize it too, eventually. He’d notice the lack of forced compliments, the absence of that strained filter.

He’d understand that the tentative truce, the fragile camaraderie, had perhaps only existed under magical duress. And he would pull away. He’d withdraw behind his royal awkwardness, relieved to be free of the confusing entanglement, leaving Alastor… alone.

‘He'll leave.’ The thought hit him like a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs. He’d retreat back into his cloud of apathy and ducks. And this… this thing between them, this irritating, fascinating, undeniably engaging dynamic he’d surprisingly come to… anticipate? It would simply cease.

A low hiss of static escaped him. He turned stiffly, walking toward the nightstand beside his bed, his movements jerky. His gaze fell upon the small, crimson object sitting there.

With hands that trembled almost imperceptibly, he reached out, fingers closing around the firm rubber, picking it up to observe its wide, painted grin. ‘I can’t lose this,’ the thought echoed, raw and terrifyingly clear as he stared at the absurd toy. Lose Lucifer’s hesitant smiles? The surprising warmth in his laughter? The sharp, unexpected turns of his mind? This baffling connection that made the eternity of Hell feel fractionally less monotonous?

No.

Clutching the duck tighter, a desperate, calculating glint returned to his eyes, overriding the raw fear with sheer force of will. Lucifer didn't know. Not yet. He’d fled in embarrassment, missing Alastor’s own internal shattering.

There was still time. An opportunity.

An idea sparked, sharp and dangerous, forged in the cold fire of his panic. If the magic wouldn't compel him… well, wasn't he the Radio Demon? Performance was his oldest, truest refuge. He could pretend. Maintain the charade. Keep the excuse alive. Keep Lucifer within reach.

His smile sharpened, regaining its familiar, predatory confidence, though the tremor in his hands took a moment longer to still. He placed the duck carefully back on the nightstand, its cheerful gaze now feeling less like mockery and more like a silent accomplice.

Right then. One hour. Decorations.

He had a performance to prepare.

Notes:

Next chapter, "Lost in Decoration", will be posted on Thursday, July 17th!

Chapter 16: Lost in Decoration

Lucifer closed his suite door with a soft click that sounded deafening in the sudden quiet. He didn’t bother with the lock. What was the point? The real vulnerability wasn't something a deadbolt could fix.

He tossed his pristine white top hat onto the sprawling, crimson velvet of his bed with a sigh that was less weary and more… utterly bewildered. It landed with a soft, almost accusatory thump.

He sank onto the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning faintly beneath his weight. The room, usually a haven of controlled chaos and comforting familiarity, felt alien. Or maybe he was the alien in it now. He stared blankly ahead, the opulent decor—the swirling golden accents, the plush carpets, the towering shelves crammed with his beloved ducks—blurring into a meaningless backdrop.

In love. With Alastor.

The words echoed in the cavern of his mind, stark and terrifyingly clear. It was the kind of monumental, life-altering realization that should’ve been accompanied by choirs of angels—or perhaps, more appropriately, a cacophony of screaming demons. Instead, it had arrived with a quiet, internal thud, much like his discarded hat.

His gaze drifted, unfocused, around the room, finally landing on a particularly crowded shelf. Ducks. Hundreds of them: yellow ones, blue ones, some with jaunty hats, others with ridiculous little bowties. He’d created every single one, imbued them with… well, with whatever whim had struck him at the moment. They were his silent confidants, his quirky creations, a testament to his own eccentricities.

And now, they felt like a thousand tiny, judgmental eyes staring back at him.

He spotted a particularly regal-looking one near the front, a little crown perched jauntily on its yellow head. "Hey," Lucifer muttered, his voice raspy. "Don’t you judge me with that haughty air, ‘Your Quackiness.’" He managed a weak, humorless smile. "I know. I know it was a flop before."

His gaze shifted to a brightly colored duck sporting a comically oversized clown ruff and a painted-on, perpetually surprised expression. "And you," he addressed it, a touch of his usual dramatic flair returning, though tinged with an unfamiliar vulnerability, "don’t you dare make a mockery of this, ‘Chuckles.’ You both know… I haven’t felt anything like this since… well, since Lilith."

The name, usually a source of dull ache and distant bitterness, now felt different when juxtaposed with this new, bewildering emotion. "With her," he continued, his voice dropping, the words aimed more at himself than the inanimate audience, "it was all so… different. Simpler, in a way. She was the first woman, you know? Created. We didn’t even really know what flirting was, let alone falling in love. It was all so… easy. Fast."

His gaze grew distant, a veil of melancholy settling over his features. "And then, before we knew it, bam." A humorless little sound escaped him. "Kicked out of Heaven, and suddenly everything became… expected of us."

He sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. "We fell right into our roles as rulers, didn’t we? Me, too depressed and bitter to act like the king everyone thought I should be, and her… she was filled with all the determination and ambition that I… well, that I’d lost somewhere along the way." A dry, mirthless laugh hitched in his throat. "Or maybe I should say, I lost it in the Fall."

Another sigh, this one softer, accompanied by a tiny, almost wistful smile.

"But with Alastor… it’s all just… different, like I said. He challenges me in ways Lilith never could, never did. He makes me want to… try. Makes me feel like myself again." Lucifer ran a hand through the golden strands of his hair, a nervous gesture. "But at the same time, it’s so confusing. It’s almost terrifying." He let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle. "I feel like a fish out of water… more than usual, I mean."

The absurdity of it all struck him then, and a genuine, albeit slightly shaky, laugh escaped him. "The King of Hell," he mused, shaking his head, "in love with the Radio Demon. You can’t make this stuff up, can you?"

Lucifer blinked, his gaze sweeping back over the silent, inanimate flock. He let out a short, sharp scoff. "What in Hell am I doing?" he muttered, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Seriously, Lucifer, you’ve got to stop talking to the ducks."

With a sudden surge of energy—fueled by a potent cocktail of panic, sheer disbelief, and a ridiculous, unexpected flicker of actual determination—he pushed himself off the mattress. He stood taller, squaring his shoulders, a glint of his old fire returning to his eyes. He jabbed a finger decisively into the air.

"Right!" he declared to the room at large. "That’s it. I’m going to march right out of this room, find Alastor, and show him exactly who the Sin of Pride really is!" Then, turning slightly, he aimed that same determined finger directly at the ducks on the shelf. "Take that, depression!"

 

---

 

Alastor adjusted his bowtie with a crisp, decisive flick. His shoulders rolled back, a subtle loosening before the inevitable tightening of a performer stepping into the spotlight. A brilliant, unwavering smile was already firmly in place as he swept the salon doors open with a flourish.

He strode forward with an air of impeccable, practiced confidence, each step measured, his posture radiating effortless command as he prepared to take in the elegant hall he was to transform for the party.

Then, just a few strides in, as his eyes began to truly register the scene before him, he nearly pitched face-first onto the floor, his polished heel skidding as his entire frame jolted from the visual impact.

He snapped upright with a rigidity that was almost shocking, that confident smile now a terrifyingly brittle line. He stood frozen for a beat, then his head began a slow, deliberate turn, taking in the room, his expression aghast.

This… this wasn’t an elegantly decorated salon awaiting a gala. This was a circus tent. A particularly garish one, at that.

The walls, which should have been a canvas for sophisticated design, had been brutalized by wallpaper of the most offensive nature. A violent cherry red warred with stripes of a shrieking canary yellow. And plastered across this blinding foundation, with relentless, grinning repetition, were golden apples.

His gaze then snagged on the other figures woven into the pattern, and his smile, if possible, tightened even further. The details swam before his eyes for a second, indistinct shapes amidst the chaos. And then… wait.

His eyes narrowed, focusing sharply. Were those…? No. They couldn’t be. But yes. Unmistakably, those were deer. Stylized, almost cartoonish, but deer nonetheless, their antlers rendered with a crude, almost mocking simplicity. And prancing alongside them, in a pattern that defied all logic and good taste, were… ducks. Bright yellow, cartoonishly plump, utterly witless-looking ducks.

Alastor remained rooted to the spot, a pillar of silent, seething horror and profound disgust. The air around him, usually humming with a subtle static, now crackled with a sharp, agitated energy. His eyes, narrowed to crimson slits, burned with an unholy light as they scanned the relentless, repeating insult of apples, deer, and ducks.

This wasn’t just tastelessness. This was an abomination.

And amidst that visual disaster, beaming like the morning sun, was Lucifer.

The King of Hell spotted him, his smile widening if possible. “Alastor!” Lucifer called out cheerfully. “There you are! Been waiting for you. Thought I’d get a jump on things!”

He gestured proudly with his apple-topped cane, sweeping it in a grand arc that encompassed the freshly papered—and utterly offensive—walls.

“Figured a little color would liven the place up, you know?” He looked expectantly at Alastor, clearly anticipating effusive praise. “What do you think?”

It took Alastor a visible moment to recover, his brain apparently struggling to form words in the face of such profound tastelessness. His smile, already stretched thin, tightened even further, becoming a terrifying rictus of forced pleasantry. He inhaled sharply, the sound accompanied by a faint, high-pitched whine of static, and straightened his posture with meticulous care, every movement screaming immense effort.

When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth, almost sickeningly so, dripping with a strained politeness that felt fundamentally wrong. “Such…” he began, his eyes glittering with something that was definitely not admiration, “…unique taste, Lucifer.” He paused, his smile twitching almost imperceptibly at the corner. “Truly… inspired. I couldn’t possibly have conceived of anything… quite like it!”

Lucifer puffed up with pride at the (completely misinterpreted) compliment. “And that’s nothing!” he declared grandly. “Just you watch!”

With a dramatic twirl of his apple-topped cane and an accompanying swirl of deep red smoke laced with golden glitter, something materialized abruptly in the center of the room. The smoke cleared to reveal… a chocolate fountain. A large, three-tiered chocolate fountain, sculpted into the unmistakable shape of a cheerful yellow rubber duck. Thick, melted chocolate streamed continuously from its open beak.

Lucifer turned back to Alastor, positively preening with satisfaction. “What do you say?” he asked, gesturing towards the quacking monstrosity. “Charlie always adored this kind of thing when she was little!”

Alastor stared at the duck-shaped chocolate fountain, aghast. A muscle began to twitch violently just below his right eye. His smile stretched even wider, looking agonizingly forced, utterly detached from the horror evident in his narrowed eyes.

“It’s… quite the spectacle, Your Majesty!” Alastor managed, his voice sounding tight, almost strangled. “So… so…” The eye twitch intensified with each word. “…dazzling!”

Lucifer, however, completely missed the reaction, still basking in the glory of his chocolate duck fountain. He chuckled brightly, gesturing towards his creation with absolute confidence. “Haha, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked Alastor jovially. “Everyone will simply be stunned when they see all this, once it’s finished!”

Alastor’s eye twitched again, harder this time. The static around him seemed to spike sharply, crackling loud enough to be almost audible. He forced the smile to remain, though it looked brittle enough to shatter, his entire posture radiating extreme irritation barely held in check. When he spoke, his voice was tight, nearly drowned out by the thick, harsh static overlay.

“I…” he bit out, the sound rough, “…don’t doubt it.”

Before Alastor could even begin to formulate a plan to remedy the glaring disaster the reception hall was rapidly becoming, Lucifer announced brightly, “But the best part is yet to come!” With another enthusiastic swirl of his cane, a different, more complex machine materialized with a puff of red smoke. “Ta-daaa!”

Right in front of the deer demon’s utterly shell-shocked face, Lucifer pressed a large, inviting button on the side of the contraption. Instantly, a torrent of iridescent bubbles and shimmering glitter erupted from a nozzle, filling the air with a sparkling, chaotic cloud.

“What’s a party without a little sparkle!” the King declared, his voice giddy with excitement as he watched the glittery bubbles float around them, already starting to settle on the offensive wallpaper and the chocolate duck.

‘He’s mocking me!’ The thought screamed through Alastor’s mind, sharp and panicked. ‘He must have figured it out! He knows about the curse being gone, and this… this is a test! There’s no other explanation!’

He could feel a bead of sweat trickling down his temple, though his smile remained stretched wide and immobile. His fists were clenched so tightly at his sides, claws digging into his palms, and he was fighting the urge to scream from sheer, unadulterated frustration.

“Do you like it, Alastor?” Lucifer asked, his voice full of bright expectation, gesturing towards the glittery bubble bonanza.

Alastor’s entire body was trembling faintly with the monumental effort required not to simply explode – perhaps literally, perhaps just metaphorically by setting the entire garish salon ablaze, preferably with both of them inside. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes from the sheer strain, and his jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, the muscles standing out sharply beneath his skin. Yet, the smile remained, a horrifying rictus of forced delight.

He ground the words out through his teeth, the sound tight and brittle, laced with static. “It’s…” tremble “…to die for.”

Lucifer watched Alastor, truly watched him. The Radio Demon was trembling, a fine, almost imperceptible shudder running through his usually composed frame. His smile, that signature, sharp-toothed crescent, was stretched incredibly tight, a terrifying rictus of… something. And his eyes, those vibrant crimson pools, they were definitely shining, weren’t they? Almost… wet?

Lucifer’s breath caught. He’d seen Alastor react in many ways – with disdain, with amusement, with barely concealed menace. But this? This looked like an immense effort to hold himself together.

Awe washed over Lucifer, a warm, dizzying wave that settled deep in his chest.

‘I did it,’ he thought, the realization hitting him with the force of a revelation. ‘I managed to impress him. I even managed to move him. This time, I’ve really outdone myself!’

His artistic vision… it had spoken to Alastor! Right to his soul! He’d worried, just a little, that his choices might be too bold, but clearly, he had underestimated the depth of Alastor’s appreciation for true, heartfelt expression.

To die for. Such powerful praise! Such dramatic flair! Alastor truly got him. He understood the passion, the sheer commitment Lucifer had poured into transforming this drab salon into a veritable explosion of joy and thematic cohesion.

A soft, ridiculously fond smile spread across Lucifer’s face. He wanted to rush over, maybe pat Alastor on the shoulder, assure him it was okay to feel things so deeply. But no, that might break the spell. This was a sacred moment of artistic communion.

Lucifer took a small, almost reverent step closer, his gaze fixed on Alastor’s shimmering eyes. He had to be careful, had to handle this delicate emotional breakthrough with the sensitivity it deserved.

“Alastor,” he said softly, his voice full of warmth and a dawning, giddy hope. “You can let go with me. Let it all out,” Lucifer added, his voice barely above a whisper, offering a timid smile of pure encouragement.

Alastor’s fingers twitched. Oh, he wanted to ‘let it all out,’ alright. He yearned to grab His Majesty by his ridiculously well-tailored collar and shake him like a common rag doll until a sliver of oxygen, just a gasp, managed to penetrate that thick skull, hopefully reigniting a flicker of common sense and, dare he hope, a modicum of good taste along with it.

For a fleeting, dangerous moment, his eyes flickered, pupils morphing into spinning radio dials as faint, unsettling Voodoo symbols danced ominously in the air around his head. His voice, when it came, was a low growl, heavily distorted by a surge of static. “Let it all out, eh?” He tilted his head, the gesture less curious, more predatory.

Lucifer watched the display, his own smile faltering. ‘Damn!’ he thought, a knot of apprehension tightening in his chest. ‘Al really doesn’t like showing his vulnerabilities. Better give him some space.’ With a small, almost imperceptible sigh, Lucifer turned his back on the Radio Demon, deliberately creating distance by walking towards the far side of the lavishly—if garishly—decorated salon.

Unseen by the King, Alastor’s hands clenched and unclenched, shadows lengthening from his fingertips as he fought the overwhelming urge to physically manifest his frustrations upon Lucifer’s unsuspecting person. His arms even stretched out, the movement stiff, yearning to grab, to instill some understanding into the King of Hell.

Lucifer, blissfully unaware of the demonic turmoil brewing just a few feet behind him, continued his confession to the garishly papered wall. His voice, softer now, carried a vulnerability that was rarely, if ever, exposed.

“You know,” he began, his shoulder still angled away from Alastor, “when Charlie first roped us into this… this whole party project, I was… well, I was completely against it. The thought of working with you…” He let out a small, self-deprecating sigh. “Let’s just say it wasn’t high on my list of ‘fun things to do in eternal damnation.’ I never, not in a million millennia, thought I’d actually… enjoy creating something with you. Or, you know, realizing something with you.” He paused, the admission hanging in the air. “But these last few days? They’ve been… they’ve been the most carefree I’ve felt in… forever, I think.”

He shifted his weight slightly, his gaze still fixed on the dizzying pattern of apples and deer.

“Only Charlie… she’s usually the only one who makes me feel like I have any sort of purpose down here. Most of the time, the only thing I really wanted was to just… disappear into myself. Fade away, maybe. Vanish entirely from existence in the process, if I was lucky.” He drew a shaky breath. “Only Charlie. And now… well, now apparently, you.”

The lingering Voodoo symbols in the air around Alastor wavered and then dissolved. The menacing static hiss receded, and his eyes faded from unsettling radio dials back to their sharp crimson. He lowered his still-outstretched arms slowly, a flicker of genuine astonishment chasing away the last vestiges of his murderous intent. A strange, unfamiliar warmth spread through his chest, unsettling yet not entirely unwelcome, as the fallen angel’s words echoed in the salon.

To be held in the same regard as his cherished daughter… by Lucifer Morningstar, of all beings. It was something that shook him to his very core, rattling the carefully constructed walls around his ancient, jaded soul.

Lucifer finally turned, his movements hesitant. A soft, almost shy smile touched his lips, and his eyes… there was something in his eyes, a complex emotion that Alastor, for all his centuries of reading souls and expressions, couldn’t quite decipher. It wasn’t awe, not entirely. It wasn’t just hope. It was something deeper, more fragile, and aimed directly at him.

For the first time since he’d clawed his way to power in the rings of Hell, Alastor, the ever-eloquent Radio Demon, found himself utterly without words. He simply stood there, motionless, his usually sharp grin slackened into an expression of stunned silence.

The two of them just… looked at each other, the cacophony of the garish wallpaper, the impending party, the entirety of Hell itself seeming to fade away, leaving them suspended in a silent, charged moment where time itself felt as if it had stopped.

Alastor moved then, breaking the spell, taking a single, deliberate step closer. Then another. He stopped mere inches from Lucifer, close enough for the faint scent of apples and that subtle, pleasant cologne that was uniquely Lucifer’s to fill his senses. Lucifer’s breath hitched, his own sweet, hesitant smile flickering under the sudden, intense proximity, his gaze, red within gold, wide and stunned.

Alastor’s hand lifted slowly. His bare fingers trembled slightly, a barely perceptible tremor betraying the inner turmoil beneath his still, silent facade. The hand paused for a heartbeat in the charged space between them, hesitation stark in the line of his shoulders, in the slight furrow of his brow that marred his usually smooth expression.

Then, with a finality that felt both shocking and inevitable, he reached out. His fingers, cool against the sudden heat rising in Lucifer’s face, made contact. They brushed, feather-light at first, against Lucifer’s cheekbone, before gently, hesitantly, cupping his cheek.

The touch sent a silent explosion through Lucifer. He froze, eyes wide, staring up at the Radio Demon. For a long moment, Lucifer simply stood there, caught in the unexpected softness of the touch, the intensity of Alastor’s unguarded gaze. Then, slowly, almost hesitantly, he responded. The tension in his shoulders eased fractionally. His eyes softened, the startled ruby within them losing some of its wideness. He leaned into the touch, just slightly, a barely perceptible movement, closing his eyes for a fleeting second as he tilted his head into the cradle of Alastor’s cool hand.

As Lucifer melted into the touch, accepting the bewildering intimacy, a visible change came over Alastor. The sharp, almost manic energy that usually radiated from him seemed to calm, settling into a quiet intensity. His perpetually wide, toothy grin softened, the sharp points retracting as his lips pressed together into a gentle, closed-mouth smile. It was a rare sight, stripping away the layers of performance and revealing something unexpectedly serene beneath. His crimson eyes, fixed on Lucifer’s now-relaxed face, held a deep, quiet warmth, reflecting the fragile intimacy settling between them in the silent room.

The delicate moment, suspended like a soap bubble, shattered instantly at the sound of a sharp, pointed throat-clearing echoing from the salon doorway.

“Ahem.”

Lucifer recoiled as if struck, jerking his head up and pulling away abruptly from Alastor’s touch. His eyes flew open, wide and startled, the soft ruby instantly flashing with surprise and returning embarrassment. A fresh wave of hot golden blush surged up his neck and across his cheeks as he stumbled back half a step, instinctively smoothing down the front of his waistcoat, looking utterly caught off guard.

Alastor’s reaction was equally swift, though masked with practiced control. His hand dropped from Lucifer’s cheek as if burned, clenching briefly at his side before relaxing. The rare, gentle smile vanished in an instant, replaced by his default sharp, wide grin, perhaps pulled a fraction tighter at the corners with sudden annoyance. The quiet warmth in his eyes was instantly snuffed out, replaced by their usual alert, inscrutable intensity.

Both demons snapped their heads towards the doorway simultaneously, their brief, shared intimacy dissolving under the unexpected scrutiny.

Vaggie stood there, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her spear noticeably absent but her stance rigid. Her single visible eye was narrowed, sweeping over them with a hard, assessing gaze that lingered perhaps a moment too long on Alastor. Her expression was unreadable but undeniably serious, etched with clear disapproval as she took in the scene.

Before Vaggie could utter a word, Alastor smoothly seized control of the interaction, turning fully towards her. His smile dripped with an exaggerated, almost theatrical politeness that felt sharp as glass.

“Ah, Vagatha,” Alastor drawled, his voice laced with a distinct, mocking affectation as he deliberately used her full name. “You’ve troubled yourself to come all the way down here.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming with false curiosity. “Do tell us, what important matter required your presence?”

Vaggie’s eye narrowed almost imperceptibly at his tone, but she refused to rise to the bait. Her expression remained carefully neutral, her voice flat. “Charlie sent me,” she stated simply. “She wanted me to see if you two needed a hand.” Her gaze flickered pointedly around the garishly decorated salon, taking in the clashing wallpaper and the chocolate fountain, before returning to them, her expression unchanging.

Oblivious to the undercurrents, Lucifer brightened considerably, his earlier fluster forgotten. “Oh! Sure, Vaggie! Great timing!” he exclaimed warmly, turning fully towards her. As Lucifer spoke, Alastor, standing slightly behind him, slowly turned his head, fixing his gaze on Vaggie. His usual wide grin stretched thin across his face, a brittle facade of strained pleasantness that barely masked the simmering rancor darkening his narrowed crimson eyes as he watched Lucifer welcome her so readily.

Lucifer, still beaming at Vaggie, turned back towards the decorations, gesturing around the room. “I was just thinking about adding the final—”

“NO!” The word ripped out of Alastor, sharp and involuntary, directed squarely at Lucifer’s back and cutting him off instantly. Lucifer flinched at the sudden, harsh sound. Alastor seemed to recover immediately, forcing his tone back into that silken, slightly condescending edge, though his smile remained tight as he addressed Lucifer. “That is,” he amended smoothly, “I wouldn’t want His Majesty to tire himself out.” He tilted his head. “You’ve done too much already.” The emphasis was slight but barbed. “Why don’t you leave the rest to me while you relax?”

Lucifer blinked, turning back slightly, caught off guard by the initial sharpness but easily swayed by the suggestion of relaxing after his perceived artistic triumphs. Accepting the offer entirely at face value, acting in complete good faith, he simply shrugged, a grateful smile spreading across his face. “Oh! Uh, well, if you insist, Al. Thanks!”

He gave a final, proud look around the room, seemingly satisfied with his contribution. Instead of leaving, he moved towards one of the less cluttered corners of the salon, leaning against the wall with his cane, content to observe the final touches from a slight distance.

A heavy silence descended between Alastor and Vaggie, broken only by the faint gurgle of the chocolate fountain. Alastor’s sharp grin remained fixed as he turned his gaze slowly back towards Vaggie, an unreadable glint in his crimson eyes. Vaggie met his stare unflinchingly, her arms still crossed, posture radiating distrust.

Just as the tension threatened to solidify, a blur of motion zipped into the room, coming to an abrupt halt beside Vaggie. It was Niffty, feather duster already in hand, vibrating with energy.
“Charlie sent me too!” Niffty chirped brightly, her single large eye wide and scanning the room with manic intensity. “Said you needed help finishing up! Lots of… sparkle! Needs tidying!”

Alastor’s smile seemed to relax slightly, genuinely amused by Niffty’s sudden appearance. “Ah, Niffty. Excellent timing.” He gestured vaguely around the room with his microphone cane. “Indeed, a few final adjustments are required to achieve… a good result.”

And so, the unlikely trio set about putting the finishing touches on Lucifer’s chaotic vision. Alastor directed with smooth, slightly passive-aggressive, suggestions, while Niffty zipped around, eradicating stray glitter and polishing surfaces with terrifying speed. Vaggie worked silently, efficiently adjusting a stray banner or smoothing a rumpled tablecloth, her sharp gaze constantly flickering between Alastor's controlled movements and Lucifer's quiet observation from the sidelines.

Notes:

The next chapter, "Cracks in the Charm," will be posted on Thursday, July 31st! Sorry, but I'll be busy next week.

Chapter 17: Cracks in the Charm

The morning after the… eventful decoration session felt surprisingly calm. Lucifer found himself heading towards the kitchen, a quiet serenity settling over him despite the emotional rollercoaster of the past few days – or maybe because of it. The revelation of his feelings for Alastor was still a buzzing undercurrent, terrifying yet strangely grounding. Today, however, his mission was simpler: conquer the coffee percolator. He was determined to make his own damn coffee.

He pushed through the swinging doors, braced for battle with the machine, but stopped short.

Alastor was already there. Standing in profile to him at the large sink, meticulously washing out his crimson “Oh Deer” mug. Sunlight, or Hell’s closest equivalent, streamed through the window, catching the sharp lines of his silhouette, sleeves already neatly rolled up.

Lucifer’s heart gave that now-familiar, ridiculous little leap. ‘Right. Calm. Be calm.’

He pasted on a smile, hoping it looked more serene than lovesick puppy. “Morning, Al!”

Alastor paused his washing, turning smoothly. His smile seemed softer than usual this morning, less sharp, holding a hint of the quiet accord they’d reached. There was a calmness about him that mirrored Lucifer’s own.

“Good morning, Luci,” he replied, his voice holding its velvet-and-static quality. It felt nice. Normal.

Encouraged, Lucifer walked towards the coffee station. He squared his shoulders, facing the machine with mock seriousness as he reached for the coffee canister on a nearby shelf. “And now for us, you devilish contraption,” he muttered, eyeing the percolator warily as he measured out the grounds. He could do this.

He was so focused on not making a mess that he didn’t immediately notice Alastor had stopped his own task. When he glanced up, ready to tackle the water situation, he saw Alastor still at the sink, but now just watching him, head tilted slightly. As their eyes met, Alastor gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head, a flicker of something like amused disapproval crossing his features before it was instantly smoothed over by his usual smile.

Then Alastor turned, picked up a dish towel, and dried his hands with brisk, efficient movements. “Well, I suppose no one would be surprised if you’d—”
A beat. He blinked, then continued smoothly, “—bring such impressive zeal to something as noble as... brewing coffee.”

As he stepped away from the sink, towards Lucifer, his relaxed posture tightened almost imperceptibly. The soft curve of his smile snapped back into the familiar, wide, sharp grin, maybe a fraction too bright, too fixed. The air around him seemed to regain that faint, buzzing tension.

“Allow me, Luci,” Alastor offered, his voice attempting that smooth, polite quality as he approached the coffee station. Before Lucifer could properly respond, Alastor continued, his tone becoming a little too effusive, “Oh, I’m absolutely convinced you’d do a splendid job, of course. But really, since I’m already here, it’ll just take a moment.” As the words – the compliment a little too quick, a little too condescending – left his mouth, his right ear gave that quick, nervous flicker.

Lucifer blinked. The slight headshake of disapproval, then the sudden stiffening, the immediate offer followed by the overly elaborate, forced-sounding compliment, capped by the ear twitch… it was a little odd, but Alastor was frequently odd. He decided not to make a thing of it.

“No, really, Al, I can manage. I insist,” Lucifer said, turning back to the machine with a determined air, ready to pour the grounds into the basket.

Alastor stepped closer, his smile unwavering, his voice still holding that overly solicitous tone. “Nonsense,” he demurred, gently taking the coffee canister from Lucifer’s hand. “It costs me nothing! And I wouldn’t want you to dirty your precious royal hands with vulgar coffee grounds.” As this second, even more bizarre compliment left his lips, his right ear flickered again, more noticeably this time.

Lucifer just stared for a second. Precious royal hands? Vulgar coffee grounds? Okay, now Alastor was officially being weird. Since when did he talk like that? It sounded like something out of a badly written historical romance, not the Radio Demon. It was… theatrical. And the ear twitch. He found himself comparing this Alastor to the one from the past few days – the one who’d shared surprisingly personal details, the one who’d given him the record player. This version felt… stiff. Rehearsed.

Lucifer sighed inwardly, but stepped back, letting Alastor take over. He leaned against the counter, a thoughtful frown playing on his lips.

The yellow duck mug was soon presented. “There you are.”

“Thanks,” Lucifer mumbled, taking it. He turned to the sugar bowl, adding his four spoonfuls automatically. Stirring, he glanced back. Alastor watched, smile unwavering. But as the fourth spoonful dissolved, Lucifer was almost sure he saw Alastor’s eyes tighten at the corners for a split second before smoothing out.

He took a cautious sip, the familiar sweetness flooding his senses. He looked at Alastor directly, noting the flicker of near disapproval that crossed the Radio Demon’s features before it was instantly smoothed over by his unwavering smile. “What’s wrong?”

Alastor’s smile remained perfectly in place, perhaps even widening a fraction. “Nothing at all, Luci!” he chirped, the cheeriness feeling a little… bright. “Just noticing how remarkably sweet you enjoy your coffee. It must be absolutely delicious that way!”

Lucifer lowered his mug slowly. Delicious? After months of cohabiting with the Radio Demon, and just the previous morning in this very kitchen, he knew Alastor detested sweet things and always took his coffee black, without sugar. Alastor was definitely behaving strangely…

He didn’t say anything, just offered a noncommittal, “Huh.” He took another sip.

Lucifer kept the yellow duck mug near his lips, peering at Alastor over the rim as he took another slow sip. The silence stretched, marked only by the clink of his spoon against ceramic as he stirred slowly, trying to melt the excessive sugar he'd dumped in moments earlier.

Alastor stood perfectly composed by the sink, his usual unnerving smile fixed firmly in place. Yet, as Lucifer watched, he caught it – the barest flicker in Alastor's crimson eyes, a tightening almost too small to see around the edges of that smile, lasting only a fraction of a second before smoothing out. It was the kind of minute detail Lucifer wouldn't have noticed weeks ago, but now, after everything, it stood out against the demon's practiced stillness. It was almost like the tiny, near-invisible ear twitch he'd caught earlier.

Still holding the mug aloft, Lucifer slowly raised a single eyebrow, his own gaze steady.

That seemed to be the breaking point. Alastor’s smile remained plastered on, but he cleared his throat, a sound like faint static crackling briefly in the quiet kitchen.

“Well!” Alastor chirped suddenly, the sound overly bright. He gave his bowtie an unnecessary tug. “Must dash! Just remembered I need to see if Charlie requires my assistance with anything.” His eyes darted towards the doorway, not quite meeting Lucifer’s. “You know how these hotels are – always something demanding attention! Farewell for now!”

He turned, perhaps a shade too quickly, and strode towards the exit. The swinging doors flapped shut behind him with a finality that felt abrupt, leaving Lucifer alone in the kitchen, the sweet coffee suddenly tasting less satisfying.

 

---

 

It was afternoon, and Lucifer slouched in one of the lobby armchairs, listlessly flipping through the pages of a tattered magazine he’d found shoved down the side of the cushion. He wasn't really reading it; the pictures of outdated infernal contraptions and badly drawn advertisements blurred together in a monotonous stream. He sighed, letting the magazine fall open on his lap, thoroughly bored.

“Dad?”

Lucifer looked up. Charlie stood before him, radiating her usual determined optimism, though her smile looked a little strained around the edges – party planning stress, no doubt.

“Hey, sweetie,” he offered, managing a faint smile.

“Hi!” Charlie bounced slightly on the balls of her feet. “So, we’re trying a new group bonding activity, and we’re kinda short on numbers. Would you maybe wanna join us? Just to even things out?” She gestured towards the center of the lobby where a small, slightly chaotic circle of demons was gathered.

Lucifer followed her gesture, his gaze sweeping over the participants. Angel Dust and Cherri Bomb were standing together, arms crossed, twin expressions of profound reluctance plastered on their faces; they looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. Nearby, Niffty was vibrating with barely contained energy, holding up one of her long, wicked-looking needles. She was showing it off with a disturbingly gleeful, almost sinister smirk and a distinct twinkle in her single eye to a newer Sinner – a slight guy with impressive, curling ram horns – who was visibly paling and trying to inch backwards without Niffty noticing. Vaggie stood slightly apart from the main group, deep in conversation with another demon Lucifer vaguely recognized seeing around lately – a shorter woman with prominent whiskers, chubby cheeks, and small, round ears that put him vaguely in mind of a hamster. Miranda? He thought Charlie had called her Miranda.

It certainly didn’t look like the most thrilling way to spend an afternoon, but it beat staring at seventy-year-old ads. Lucifer shrugged, tossing the ancient magazine onto the side table.

“Sure, Charlie,” he said, pushing himself out of the armchair. “Why not? Got nothing better to do.”

Lucifer followed Charlie towards the center of the lobby, offering a weak wave to the assembled group. Angel Dust gave him a look that clearly screamed ‘Why are you enabling this?’, while Niffty just vibrated faster, momentarily distracted from terrorizing the slight, ram-horned sinner.

He spotted an open space on the floor next to the hamster-like demon Vaggie had been talking to earlier. Seemed like the least chaotic option. He sat down, crossing his legs casually in a way perhaps unbefitting the King of Hell, but Lucifer didn’t give it a second thought.

He turned to the demon beside him, offering what he hoped was a friendly, casual smile. She had wide, dark eyes and was observing the group quietly, though she straightened slightly when she noticed him sit down.

“Hey, Miranda, how’s it going?” Lucifer asked, aiming for approachable.

The demon blinked, her round cheeks turning a soft pink. She offered him a small, hesitant smile and lowered her gaze politely, her hands resting quietly in her lap.

“It’s, um… actually Mirabelle,” she corrected him softly, her voice quiet but clear. “Hello, Your Majesty.”

Lucifer settled himself more comfortably, still cross-legged, and offered Mirabelle a slightly strained smile. She still seemed a little overwhelmed by his presence.

Charlie clapped her hands together, drawing the group’s attention. “Okay!” she announced, her smile bright. “Now that we’re all paired up, we can get started!”

Just then, a tall, crimson-clad figure materialized silently near an adjacent archway, as if he’d stepped directly out of the shadows.

“Oh, Alastor! Hi!” Charlie greeted him, her voice cheerful but with a hint of surprise. “Didn’t see you come in.”

The Radio Demon offered her a wide grin, his eyes glinting with curiosity as he surveyed the circle of demons seated on the floor. He spotted an empty chair near Charlie, upon which rested a small, colorful cloth bag. With his usual unsettling grace, he approached and settled onto the chair.

He raised an elegant eyebrow as he peered into the bag, then reached in and pulled out a folded slip of paper. He unfolded it and read aloud, his tone dripping with velvety sarcasm that sent a faint shiver down Lucifer’s spine: “What would you do if you discovered your best friend posted a picture of their feet on OnlySins?”

Charlie giggled, her cheeks flushing faintly. “Oh, um, that’s for our couples activity!” she explained, gesturing towards the group. “You know, to get to know each other better, break the ice… We’re calling it ‘Hellish What Ifs’!”

She beamed at the assembled pairs. “So, the way it works is, each pair will draw a scenario from the bag – just like Alastor did. Then, you’ll have a few minutes to discuss it with your partner and come up with how you’d both react or what you’d do in that situation. The goal is to collaborate and then share your… creative solutions with the rest of us! It’s all about teamwork and seeing different perspectives!” Charlie finished with an encouraging nod, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

Alastor, a grin that promised mischief firmly in place, tucked the slip of paper back into the bag. “Please, go right ahead,” he said with a wave of his hand, his voice far too smooth. “I’ll just observe without disturbing.” His gaze lingered on the group with obvious amusement.

Lucifer rolled his eyes so hard he momentarily worried they might get stuck. Great. He could already imagine Alastor holding any potentially embarrassing question he might draw over his head for weeks, if not months, to come.

Charlie, beaming at the group, gestured towards the cloth bag Alastor had placed back on the nearby chair. “Alright, let’s get started! Since this is a ‘get-to-know-your-partner’ activity, I’ll come around with the bag, and each pair can draw one ‘Hellish What If’ prompt to discuss!”

She started moving around the circle, a cheerful facilitator. Lucifer noticed Niffty was already buzzing excitedly next to the slight, ram-horned Sinner, her voice a little too loud as she seemed to be describing something involving her needle collection with a disturbing glint in her eye. The ram-horned Sinner went a shade paler but nodded jerkily, clearly too intimidated to protest being her partner. Angel and Cherri were leaning against each other, looking thoroughly unimpressed, probably already deciding their answer would be “set it on fire.” Vaggie stood beside Charlie, offering an encouraging smile to the participants.

As Charlie approached his and Mirabelle’s spot, Lucifer was already steeling himself. He didn’t hear exactly what Niffty chirped to her partner just then, too focused on the impending prompt, but he saw the ram-horned demon flinch.

“Your turn!” Charlie said brightly, holding the bag out to Lucifer.

He reached in, the amused smirk from Alastor (still observing from his chair) practically burning a hole in the back of his neck. Lucifer pulled out a slip of paper and unfolded it, reading aloud, “Your game partner insists you’re falling short of expectations for a crucial task. How do you prove them wrong?”

A soft, staticky chuckle drifted from Alastor’s direction. He tilted his head slightly, an almost thoughtful expression on his face, though his grin remained wide and sharp. He repeated, as if musing to himself yet just loud enough for those nearby to hear, his voice laced with pure, barely suppressed amusement, “…Falling short?” His eyes flickered towards Lucifer for the briefest of moments with that familiar, knowing glint, then quickly back to observing the group with feigned casual interest.

Lucifer shot a glare over his shoulder at the Radio Demon – he knew Alastor was enjoying that far too much – before turning back to Mirabelle. He offered her a slightly forced smile. “Well, obviously,” he began, trying for a confident tone, “I’m perfectly capable of handling anything. But, you know, for the sake of teamwork and all that… maybe I’d ask for a hand? See if we can tackle it together?” He then looked towards Charlie, a hopeful expression on his face.

“Great answer, Dad!” Charlie exclaimed, giving him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “See? Teamwork!”

Just as she was about to move to the next pair, a bright notification jingle suddenly blared from Angel Dust’s direction. He whipped out his phone, his eyes widening as he read the message on screen.

A huge, almost manic grin spread across his face, his eyes shining with an unsettling brightness. “Val’s callin’!” he announced, already scrambling to his feet. “Gotta run, toots! Duty calls!” And with that, he practically sprinted out of the lobby, disappearing with surprising speed.

Cherri Bomb let out a disgusted grunt, watching him go. “Ugh,” she muttered loudly, rolling her eye. “Never seen him happier to go work for that goddamn asshole.”

Cherri Bomb’s cynical remark hung in the air as the lobby doors swung shut behind Angel Dust.

Charlie sighed, her shoulders slumping a little. “Oh no,” she said, looking around at the remaining participants with a disappointed frown. “Now we’re an odd number…”

A barely perceptible flicker of hope ignited in the eyes of nearly everyone else in the circle. Mirabelle looked visibly relieved, and even the ram-horned Sinner seemed to perk up slightly.

But then, Charlie’s gaze landed on Alastor, still seated comfortably on his chair, observing the proceedings with that unreadable smirk. A new, hopeful light sparked in her own eyes. She turned to him, her expression pleading. “Al!” she exclaimed, a bright idea clearly forming. “You could take the vacant spot! What do you say?”

Before Alastor could even respond, Lucifer, seeing a perfect opportunity for a little payback after Alastor’s earlier teasing, chimed in, a wide, challenging grin spreading across his own face. “Yes, why not, Alastor?” he called out, his voice dripping with mock enthusiasm. “Come on down and join us. That smile of yours tells me you were already having such a wonderful time just watching.”

Alastor’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly at Lucifer’s tone, but Charlie clapped her hands together, her earlier disappointment vanishing. “Perfect!” she declared. “We’ll just reform the pairs then! Everyone find a new partner!”

There was a brief, chaotic shuffle as demons stood up and looked around.

Niffty immediately darted towards Vaggie, who offered a small, slightly unconvinced smile as Niffty enthusiastically claimed her. To his visible relief, the ram-horned Sinner found himself quickly paired up with a beaming Charlie. Mirabelle glanced towards Cherri Bomb, who gave a sharp, lopsided grin and a nod, and they sat down together.

Alastor rose smoothly from his chair. His eyes met Lucifer’s for a loaded moment. Then, with a deliberate, almost theatrical grace, he moved to sit on the floor next to Lucifer, carefully arranging himself to face him directly, knees almost touching, mirroring how the other pairs had positioned themselves within the circle. The air between them crackled with unspoken anticipation.

Charlie was about to call on the next pair, a hopeful smile still on her face, when Niffty suddenly zipped forward with a burst of manic energy.

“My turn! My turn to give out the questions!” she shrieked, a blur of pink and red as she snatched the colorful cloth bag from where it rested on Alastor’s vacated chair before Charlie could even react.

Like a tiny, over-caffeinated rocket, Niffty darted around the circle. She plunged her hand into the bag, pulled out a slip, and with a mischievous giggle, practically jabbed it into Cherri Bomb’s single, wide eye.

“Ouch! Watch it, ya little psycho!” Cherri yelped, flinching back and rubbing her eye, though a grudgingly amused smirk quickly replaced her surprise.

Niffty just giggled again, already zipping towards Charlie and the ram-horned Sinner, thrusting a prompt at them. She then made a beeline for Vaggie (who braced herself) before finally flinging the last folded piece of paper towards Alastor and Lucifer. It sailed through the air and landed neatly between Alastor’s outstretched legs as he sat facing Lucifer.

Alastor observed the errant slip with a slight tilt of his head, his smile unwavering. He picked it up delicately, unfolded it, and read its contents aloud, one eyebrow arching with elegant disdain. “‘Something you are wearing has become stained with blood, and you must borrow an item of clothing from your game partner. What would you choose?’”

He paused, his gaze lifting from the paper to sweep over Lucifer for a fraction of a second, a flicker of unreadable amusement in his eyes, before he added, his voice laced with dry curiosity, “My, my. What sort of questions are these, Charlie dear?”

Charlie, at Alastor's remark about the questions, just shrugged her shoulders, a playful, slightly defensive smile touching her lips, as if to say, ‘What’s the big deal? They don’t seem so bad to me!’

Alastor turned his attention back to his game partner, Lucifer. He looked Lucifer up and down slowly, a deliberately appraising look that didn't seem entirely convinced, and then raised both eyebrows.

“Well,” Alastor began, his voice smooth and thoughtful. “If something of mine were regrettably… bloodstained, and I had to borrow from your wardrobe…” He tapped a clawed finger against his chin. “Definitely the hat.” He nodded decisively. “The rest, I fear, would be far too… sma–” He stopped abruptly, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly for a fraction of a second, as if catching himself before a verbal misstep. He quickly corrected, his smile becoming a touch too wide, a little too bright, “—is so wonderfully large and striking! Quite majestic, in fact. I do admire how it suits you, Lucifer.”

The smile that had been playing on Lucifer’s lips, born from the general silliness of the game, faltered. He looked into Alastor’s eyes, searching for the familiar glint of shared amusement or even genuine (if curse-induced) warmth they’d shared recently. But this compliment, despite its effusive words, felt… off. It didn’t land right. Instead of feeling flattered, Lucifer felt a strange, almost imperceptible sense of being… diminished.

Alastor, however, seemed to misread the subtle shift in Lucifer’s expression. Seeing the King’s smile fade, he thought his (entirely fabricated, curse-mimicking) compliment hadn’t been effusive enough. He decided to lay it on thicker.

“Indeed!” Alastor continued, his tone gaining even more forced enthusiasm. “Your entire mode of dress is simply unparalleled, a true testament to your sovereign status! Such flair, such regal bearing. I daresay I should consider incorporating white into my own attire more often, inspired by your magnificent example!”

The words, however grand, sounded hollow to Lucifer’s ears. Empty. He looked at Alastor, really looked at him, and a knot of confusion tightened in his chest.

‘What’s going on?’ Lucifer thought, the earlier ease of the afternoon evaporating. ‘Where’s that… connection we’ve had these past few days? Al… he seems different. This isn’t him.’

Then, a more unsettling thought wormed its way into his mind. ‘He’s acting almost like… like those sycophantic courtiers, the ones who’d compliment the very air I breathed just to try and get something out of me.’

A pang, sharp and unwelcome, tightened in Lucifer’s chest. He picked up the slip of paper Alastor had been reading, his gaze dropping to it as if seeing the prompt for the first time, deliberately avoiding Alastor’s eyes.

“The coat,” Lucifer said quietly, his voice flat, still looking at the paper. “I don’t wear red very often, but I don’t mind it.” He didn’t elaborate, didn’t look up, the earlier playfulness gone.

If Lucifer had looked up just then, he would have caught the flicker of concern that crossed Alastor’s face, the way his smile momentarily lost its strained brightness, replaced by a hint of genuine worry as he registered Lucifer’s withdrawn tone. Alastor opened his mouth, as if to say something, perhaps to ask if everything was alright, a break from his carefully constructed charade—

But Lucifer cleared his throat, cutting off any potential interjection. “My turn, I believe,” he stated, his voice still devoid of its usual spark. He reached out towards the cloth bag still resting on the nearby chair, intent on drawing a new slip of paper, a clear signal he was moving on, whether Alastor was ready or not.

He unfolded it and read it aloud, a flicker of curiosity in his voice despite his mood.

“You have to cook something for your game partner. What would you prepare?”

At this, a ghost of a smile finally touched Lucifer’s lips. He looked up, his gaze meeting Alastor’s. “Well…” he said, the smile widening slightly. “My ‘culinary talents’ are already rather well-known to you, I believe.” He paused, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “Let’s say… cookies flambé?”

Alastor, instantly catching the reference to Lucifer’s infamous attempt at baking that nearly resulted in a royal kitchen evacuation, let out a short, genuine chuckle. The sound was warm, unforced, and a welcome change from his earlier strained pronouncements. “Then it seems I shall have to endeavor to teach you a few proper recipes one of these days, Lucifer,” he replied, the amusement still dancing in his eyes.

He then tilted his head, his expression shifting as he considered the prompt for himself. His gaze softened as he looked at Lucifer, a thoughtful, almost tender look replacing the usual sharp assessment. “As for what I would prepare for you…” he mused, then a gentle smile touched his lips. “I would make you beignets. My mother used to make them for my birthday, every year. I’m quite certain you’d enjoy them. They’re sweet, but just the right amount.”

Hearing the sincerity in Alastor’s voice, the mention of his mother, and the quiet offer of a cherished childhood treat, Lucifer felt the knot in his chest loosen, a warmth spreading through him that chased away the earlier chill. This was a stark contrast to Alastor’s strained pronouncements from moments ago; this felt real. A genuine smile, bright and relieved, finally returned to Lucifer’s face.

The “Hellish What Ifs” game continued for a few more rounds. With the initial awkwardness (mostly on Lucifer’s part, stemming from Alastor’s confusing shift in demeanor) somewhat eased by the beignet comment, Lucifer and Alastor managed to navigate their subsequent prompts with a revived sense of their earlier playful banter. They offered witty, occasionally bizarre solutions to Charlie’s scenarios, their answers sparking chuckles from the rest of the group and even a few genuine, shared laughs between themselves. The unsettling feeling Lucifer had experienced earlier didn’t vanish entirely, but it receded, overshadowed by the familiar, engaging spark of Alastor’s more natural wit.

Finally, Charlie clapped her hands together. “Okay, everyone, that was great! I think we can wrap up this session of ‘Hellish What Ifs’ for today!”

A collective sigh of relief (mixed with a few groans from Niffty, who was clearly just getting started) went around the circle. Demons began to stand, stretch, and drift away, the impromptu bonding activity concluded.

Lucifer got to his feet, feeling surprisingly lighter. He turned to Alastor, who was also rising with his usual fluid grace.

“Hey, Al,” Lucifer began, a thoughtful expression on his face. “We still need to rehearse the sung part of our duet number for the party. What do you say? After dinner, same as usual?” He referred to their previous, surprisingly productive, music sessions.

Alastor inclined his head, his smile a smooth, agreeable curve. “An excellent proposition, Lucifer. After dinner it is.”

With a nod, they both turned and began to walk away from the dispersing group, heading in their respective directions, the promise of another musical collaboration hanging between them.

 

---

 

Later that evening, after a dinner that had been surprisingly pleasant, Lucifer was already partway down one of the hotel’s main staircases, a stack of updated party expense reports tucked under his arm. He was on his way to Charlie’s office to drop them off before heading to the Music Room.

A little further down the same flight of stairs, he spotted Alastor, who was also descending, clearly headed for the lower floors as well.

“Al!” Lucifer greeted him as their paths converged on a wider landing, his voice carrying a note of easy familiarity. “Heading to the Music Room? I just need to drop these documents off with Charlie, and I’ll be right there.” He gestured with the pile of papers he was balancing.

Alastor offered a smooth inclination of his head as Lucifer paused. “Alright. Go on then, I’ll accompany you.”

They continued their descent together, Lucifer now alongside Alastor, still navigating the steps with his documents.

As they neared the bottom of the staircase, just a few steps from the lobby floor, Lucifer glanced down and saw Angel Dust near the foot of the stairs, arm looped through Husk’s, leaning in close and saying something with a playful smirk. Husk had an amused, almost soft smile on his face – a rare expression Lucifer had only seen when the grumpy bartender was around Angel and clearly unobserved by others.

Lucifer was about to call out a greeting when he caught Angel’s next words, spoken with a knowing look towards Husk, “I’m tellin’ ya, Husky, Lucifer is so crushing on Red!”

Lucifer, caught completely off guard by the overheard comment, jolted. His eyes flew wide, and he instinctively turned his head sharply towards Alastor to see if he’d heard. In that split second of distraction, his foot missed the edge of the next step. He lurched forward, the stack of documents flying from his grasp, scattering in a cascade of paper down the remaining stairs and across the lobby floor.

He flailed, a startled yelp escaping him, bracing for an undignified tumble. But before he could fall, shadows seemed to surge from Alastor’s feet, coalescing with impossible speed. Suddenly, Alastor was there – a surprisingly solid presence in front of him  – one arm shooting out to steady Lucifer by the shoulders, the other instinctively moving to shield him, effectively catching him in a firm, almost embrace-like hold.

Angel Dust and Husk, who had been engrossed in their own conversation and hadn’t noticed Lucifer and Alastor’s approach until the sudden clatter of papers and Lucifer’s yelp drew their attention, whipped around. They saw the documents strewn everywhere and then the rather compromising tableau at the foot of the stairs: Lucifer, wide-eyed, being held upright in Alastor’s arms.

Angel’s eyes widened, then he shot Husk a triumphant look, suggestively raising and lowering his eyebrows. Husk just stared for a beat, then shook his head with a sigh of utter resignation at Angel’s theatrics.

Before Husk could even attempt a grumble, Angel grabbed his arm with a conspiratorial hiss. “Okay, cue the exit music, Whiskers!” he stage-whispered, already pulling Husk towards the bar. “Wouldn’t want to spoil the romantic climax for our leading men, now would we? Let’s give them some privacy.”

Husk rolled his eyes, letting himself be pulled along. “Yeah, yeah, Cupid. All out of the goodness of your heart, I bet.”

Angel just giggled, a sharp, knowing sound. “Kitten, you should stop betting if you don’t wanna lose more than you already are.” He winked back at Husk as they disappeared towards the bar, leaving Lucifer and Alastor in their predicament.

The sounds of their retreating footsteps and Husk’s grumbling faded, leaving a sudden, charged silence at the foot of the stairs. Lucifer was still caught, face flushed a bright gold, pressed lightly against Alastor’s surprisingly firm chest. Alastor’s arm was still a steadying weight across his shoulders, his other hand resting near Lucifer's waist where he'd instinctively moved to brace him.

For a beat, neither of them moved. Lucifer slowly let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His eyes, still wide from the near fall and the overheard comment, fluttered half-closed. He allowed himself, just for a precious, stolen second, to savor the unexpected proximity and contact with Alastor. His scent was even better than he remembered it, mixed with the smell of laundry from his clothes. He couldn’t think about anything but the solid warmth radiating from the points where their bodies met, the steady pressure of Alastor’s hands. His own heart was hammering against his ribs with a frantic rhythm, so loud he was terrified Alastor would feel the betraying thumps through the layers of their clothing.

The intoxicating closeness was playing tricks on him, surely. It almost felt as if Alastor had subtly tightened his grip, drawing him a fraction closer, holding him more securely. A dizzying, hopeful thought flickered through Lucifer’s mind – was this Alastor’s way of…? No, he couldn’t let himself go there. But the sensation, real or imagined, sent a shiver down his spine.

Mentally, Lucifer counted to ten, though he lost track several times and had to restart, the proximity scrambling his thoughts. Finally, with a reluctant internal sigh, he pushed himself gently away from Alastor’s hold. He offered a slightly sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand (thankfully, no hat to knock off this time).

“Heh heh, clumsy me!" Lucifer said, trying for a light tone. "Thanks for the save, Al."

Alastor’s smile was wide, his eyes holding a playful glint. He opened his mouth, as if about to say something witty or teasing in response. But then, his expression shifted abruptly. A subtle frown creased the space between his brows for the briefest instant, his eyes darkening, before his expression quickly smoothed out, his smile stretching into an overly solicitous, almost condescending curve. He closed his mouth, then opened it again, his voice now taking on that too-bright, saccharine tone that Lucifer was beginning to find so unsettling.

"Oh, Lucifer," Alastor said, his smile firmly in its wide, slightly off-putting curve. "With the remarkable agility you naturally possess, I'm utterly convinced you would have landed perfectly on your feet! My intervention was merely instinctive, and certainly quite superfluous, my dear fellow.”

‘There it is again!’ Lucifer thought, a cold wave of frustration washing over him, extinguishing the last embers of warmth from their earlier, more genuine exchanges. He felt his own expression harden, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Alastor. This over-the-top, patronizing praise after a simple stumble – it wasn’t just off; it was bordering on insulting.

He bent down, beginning to gather the scattered documents with sharp, irritated movements, pointedly avoiding Alastor’s gaze.

“Just give me a moment to get these papers in order,” Lucifer said, his voice tight and clipped, ‘—and my thoughts,’ he added silently, the unspoken words heavy in his mind. “I’ll meet you there.”

He continued to pointedly gather the strewn papers, meticulously stacking them, ignoring Alastor completely. He could feel the Radio Demon still standing there, the silence stretching awkwardly, probably with that same forced, solicitous smile still plastered on his face. Lucifer took his time, arranging the documents with exaggerated care – a clear dismissal.

After a moment that felt like an eternity, he heard the soft click of Alastor’s heels as he finally turned. The faint, receding sound of his footsteps heading away, presumably towards the Music Room as they’d planned, was a small relief.

Only when Lucifer was certain Alastor was out of earshot did he finally stop fussing with the papers. With a frustrated sigh and an impatient flick of his wrist, the remaining documents still on the floor zipped into his hands, magically reordering themselves into a neat, if slightly crumpled, stack.

He clutched them tightly. He strode towards Charlie's office, the documents a heavy weight in his hand. He pushed the door open to find it empty; Charlie had probably just stepped away for a moment. Lucifer didn't wait. He placed the stack of papers squarely in the middle of her surprisingly organized desk and then exited, pulling the door quietly shut behind him.

He immediately turned and headed towards the Music Room. He needed to understand what was happening, and he wanted answers from Alastor. Even if he already had a sinking, half-formed idea of what the verdict might be.

That unsettling feeling, the one that had been nagging at him since morning and which he’d initially tried to ignore, had grown more prominent with each strange interaction with Alastor. Now, it was becoming too insistent to be simply pushed to a corner of his mind.

‘It’s time for a confrontation with the Radio Demon,’ Lucifer thought grimly, as he strode quickly, each step bringing him closer to the truth.

Notes:

Next chapter, "Pining Hearts, Cursed Truths", drops Thursday, August 14th! Sorry for the irregular updates—work and life have been keeping me pretty busy.

Chapter 18: Pining Hearts, Cursed Truths

Notes:

Sorry for the delay—I was busy working on my story for Radiostatic Week.
Here we are with the new chapter. Get ready for some angst!

Alastor paced back and forth in the Music Room waiting for Lucifer. He felt nervous; he didn’t like Lucifer’s sudden coldness from a moment earlier. It was a bit like that morning. Things had seemed to be going well between them, but then something had happened and he had almost read disappointment in Lucifer’s eyes, and the smile so bright he had reluctantly come to appreciate so much had suddenly faded, and Lucifer had seemed distant. The same had happened earlier. When the King had clumsily stumbled on the stairs and he had stopped him from a disastrous fall, there had been that brief moment when he was in his arms. The mere memory brought a warmth to Alastor’s heart, and that sensation in his lower stomach that had tormented him for days intensified at the mere thought of Lucifer’s head pressed against his chest.

It was as if only the two of them existed in that instant, and Alastor, unconsciously, unwilling for the moment to end, had tightened his grip on Lucifer, holding him closer—he hoped Lucifer hadn’t noticed. But then again, Lucifer had pulled away, and while they were talking, he had seen that disappointed look again. And then the subsequent coldness, almost as if that complicity, that special connection that had formed between them, had suddenly vanished.

Alastor’s ears lowered slightly as he pondered what could have changed, what was spoiling all that had taken shape between them.

Had Lucifer discovered the truth? Was he beginning to suspect that the curse was no longer present? This was the scenario Alastor had feared. Lucifer suspected; Alastor hadn’t feigned it well enough. And now, with Lucifer privy to the truth, he would inevitably distance himself, the necessity of Alastor’s company having vanished.

At that moment, the door to the Music Room opened, and Lucifer entered. He had a strange expression on his face. Alastor straightened up, composing himself immediately, forcing his ears to stand perfectly erect and to betray none of his growing agitation.

Lucifer stepped farther into the Music Room, his own stride outwardly confident. His gaze immediately found Alastor. He noted that while the Radio Demon appeared perfectly relaxed on the surface—though the fallen angel, by now, had spent enough time in his constant presence to learn to recognize his tells, those subtle giveaways often masked by that remarkable composure—there was a subtle, underlying tension about him, as if he were trying to conceal something. Alastor’s ears, though held perfectly erect, gave a tiny twitch, a telltale sign of the effort to keep them from betraying his inner state, and his crimson eyes held a trace of… apprehension?

Looking him straight in the eyes, Lucifer said, his voice firm, “Alastor, we need to talk.”

The Radio Demon, with an air of feigned nonchalance, tilted his head. “Actually, the prearranged meeting was to sing, remember, Lucifer?”

Lucifer scoffed. “This is hardly the time for semantics, Alastor.”

Alastor then said, his voice losing its jovial edge, “Fine. What do you want to talk about? Let’s hear it.”

Lucifer took a deep breath. Okay, it was time to get to the bottom of this.

“You’ve been acting strangely since breakfast this morning, Alastor,” he said, deliberately keeping his tone gentle. He was trying to give Alastor an opening, a chance to explain, because he knew that if the demon felt cornered, he was prone to erecting an impenetrable barrier. “Can you tell me what exactly is going on?”

The Radio Demon blinked slowly, his head tilting to one side with an air of innocent curiosity. His smile, ever-present, widened just a fraction, taking on a veneer of polite puzzlement. “Strangely, Lucifer?” he echoed, his voice a smooth, light drawl that seemed a touch too unconcerned. “I confess, I haven’t the faintest idea what you could possibly be referring to. My conduct has been perfectly ordinary, I assure you.”

Lucifer’s eyebrow arched. “Oh, really? ‘Ordinary,’ you say?” A skeptical smile played on his lips. “And since when do you find sweet and extra-sugary things delicious, Alastor?” he pressed, his tone pointed, making a clear reference to the deer demon’s bizarre comment about his coffee that morning.

Alastor scoffed, his smile perhaps a fraction too wide. “I wasn’t aware that changing one’s mind about something was a crime, Lucifer.”

Lucifer’s eyebrow shot up, a grin that was far too knowing playing on his lips. “A ‘change of mind,’ Alastor, really? Is that the official story now?” He let out a short, airy chuckle, the kind that promised he wasn’t buying a word of it. “So, I suppose your sudden, deep-seated adoration for the color white was just another one of these spontaneous ‘changes of mind’? And my hat!” he declared, gesturing with a theatrical flourish toward the empty air where said often-critiqued hat usually resided. “We simply mustn’t forget your newfound reverence for the hat!” He leaned in slightly, his voice dripping with exaggerated sweetness. “The very same one you’ve so creatively, colorfully, shall we say, described since the moment I arrived? If my memory serves me right—and it usually does, for the important bits—weren’t your exact words something delightfully along the lines of, ‘My, my, Sire, such a voluminous headpiece! Is it perhaps to compensate for... other, shall we say, dimensional shortcomings?’” He finished with a beatific smile, batting his eyelashes with pure, mock innocence.

At this, Alastor quickly brought a fist to his mouth, smothering a laugh that was clearly bubbling up with a series of sharp, slightly strangled coughs. His shoulders gave a telltale shake. Once he’d somewhat regained his composure, though a glint of genuine amusement still danced in his crimson eyes, he cleared his throat delicately. “Ahem. To revisit my earlier point, Lucifer,” he drawled, his voice regaining its smooth, if perhaps slightly strained, cadence, “is an individual not permitted to... evolve their opinions?”

Lucifer’s playful demeanor vanished. He crossed his arms, his expression hardening, the earlier sarcastic amusement gone from his eyes. “Bullshit, Alastor, and you know it.” His voice, which had been light and teasing, now dropped, laced with an undeniable seriousness. “What’s really going on, Al?”

A note of genuine sadness then crept into his tone, replacing the frustration. He looked directly at the demon, his own vulnerability, so rarely shown, now evident. “I thought…” Lucifer began, his voice softer, almost hesitant, “I thought things between us… they were different now. These past few days, being with you, working on everything together… I truly believed we were building something. A real connection, Alastor. The kind I haven’t…” he paused, searching for the words, “well, the kind I haven’t had with anyone in a very, very long time. I thought what we found was… real.”

He held Alastor’s gaze, and for the briefest, almost imperceptible instant, Lucifer thought he saw a flash of something akin to guilt in the depths of those crimson eyes. It was there and then gone, immediately papered over by that familiar, impassive smile.

The Radio Demon’s smile tightened, a shield against the raw hope in Lucifer’s voice. That “connection” Lucifer was speaking of... Alastor knew, with a cold, sinking certainty, it had to be the curse. The curse that had shattered, the one that no longer tied them to each other. It was only a matter of time now. Things were already changing; he could feel the shift. Lucifer didn’t know it yet, not consciously, but he would understand soon enough. And that look on his face now, that sorrow and distance? He was already disappointed, already reacting to this new, untethered reality. The curse itself hadn’t been a real connection, Alastor told himself firmly, just an illusion. But what might have been there, beyond it… that could have been genuine. A bitter ache spread through him. But Lucifer… of course, he wouldn’t see it that way, Alastor thought, the bitterness coiling tight. He wouldn’t want what remained once the magic was gone.

Only then, armed with this bleak, defensive conviction, did Alastor’s crimson gaze deliberately break from Lucifer’s. His eyes slid away, fixing on some blank, indeterminate point across the room—a sudden, telling shift that didn’t go unnoticed by the King. “Lucifer,” Alastor said, his voice quiet and utterly devoid of warmth, “I’m not entirely sure what you’re referring to.” He paused, then added with a dismissive air, “This... ‘curse’ situation has obviously created certain illusions. You’re simply seeing things that aren’t there.”

A sharp pang of pain tightened in Lucifer’s chest at those words. Alastor was putting on a facade, denying it. But denying what, exactly? The sudden, jarring shift in his attitude today? Or was he denying the deep, almost tangible connection that had slowly, inexorably, grown between them over these past few days?

A sickening wave of self-doubt washed over Lucifer. Or... had he simply misread everything? Was what he’d believed to be Alastor’s carefully constructed emotional armor—occasionally showing cracks of genuine feeling—actually just… the harsh, unvarnished truth of his indifference? Perhaps Alastor was right. Maybe Lucifer had imagined it all, had desperately wanted to believe in something, in this fragile, unexpected warmth he’d started to feel, something the other demon so clearly didn’t perceive, didn’t feel at all.

No. He couldn’t let this doubt paralyze him. There was only one way to find out, once and for all: to see if what he desperately hoped was forming between them was truly something special and genuine. This was it. The moment to discover if his intense feelings for Alastor, this fragile hope he’d nurtured that they might actually be reciprocated, even just a little, were to finally shine, or if his hopes were now poised to shatter on the ground, trampled by Alastor’s denial, taking his own foolish heart right along with them. He had to know.

Lucifer’s demeanor shifted, his previous pain hardening into a cold resolve in response to Alastor’s last dismissive words. “Okay,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “So you think it was an illusion. I was under the impression the curse pushed us to say real things, but maybe I was wrong.” His face then set into a cold, determined expression.

“All right then. We’ve done almost everything Charlie asked of us. The music, the catering, the decorations. I’d say let’s try to see if something has changed now. Shall I go first, or will you, Alastor? Who insults whom?”

Alastor’s eyes widened for a moment, and then, looking to the side, he said nothing.

“Okay,” Lucifer said, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “I’ll go, then, seeing as you’re a coward. I get the feeling you’re messing with me. You know the curse is over, don’t you, Bellhop?” He spat out the old nickname. “Who knows how long you’ve known, but it was just too much fun yanking the King’s chain, wasn’t it? Taking advantage of the situation. But I don’t know what game you’re playing. What are your motivations?”

At this, Alastor swallowed, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. Lucifer’s brief torch of hope, which had ignited for that fleeting second at a sign of Alastor’s unease, was immediately extinguished as Alastor responded curtly, his face an impassive mask.

“My motivations are my own affair, Lucifer. Suffice it to say, I acted as I deemed appropriate. Not everything requires your actual understanding, or your approval, Your Majesty.” The title was delivered with a distinct, provocative emphasis.

“So, it was all a farce,” Lucifer said, his voice hollow now, the fight draining out of him, leaving only a vast, aching emptiness. “The time we spent together… the gift…” His voice broke on the last word, and he had to pause, the weight of his burgeoning love now a crushing stone in his chest. It was a struggle to draw breath against the pain. “Nothing real.” He finally managed to whisper, the words barely audible. “I thought…” He looked down, his shoulders slumping, hands clenching into tight fists at his sides as a tremor ran through him.

Unseen by Lucifer, whose gaze was fixed on the floor, a trace of Alastor’s own carefully concealed anguish crossed his features. That raw despair in Lucifer’s voice, the utter desolation… it sliced through Alastor’s defenses in a way nothing else could. He took an involuntary, almost imperceptible step forward, his hand lifting fractionally, an instinctual urge to reach out, to somehow undo the damage his own fear-driven words had caused, to explain that, for him, something had felt devastatingly real.

But before Alastor could form a word, or act on that fragile impulse, Lucifer looked up. His eyes were hollow, a bitter, self-deprecating smile twisting his lips. “Maybe… maybe it’s better this way,” he said, his voice raspy with unshed tears. “Better to know now that I was wrong about it all. That it was all just… one colossal mistake.”

Lucifer’s words, his utter dismissal of everything as a “colossal mistake,” struck Alastor like a physical blow, harder than any angelic weapon. The tentative warmth, the desperate, unspoken hope he himself had harbored, and the fleeting urge to explain, all vanished, incinerated by a fresh inferno of his own searing pain and a lifetime’s worth of defensive pride. If Lucifer truly believed it was all a mistake, then who was Alastor to argue? It confirmed his deepest, darkest fear: Lucifer didn’t want what was real beyond the curse. Hurt, and lashing out with the cruel precision that was his oldest, most ingrained shield, his smile widened, becoming sharper than any blade, almost predatory.

“Oh, Lucifer,” he purred, his voice now dripping with a silken, condescending mockery. “Your naivety is almost touching.” He tilted his head, as if examining a particularly fascinating, if foolish, specimen. “Did you really think there was something more than a simple… diversion imposed by circumstances? I simply continued to play the part the situation required.” Alastor paused, letting a particularly sharp, knowing smile spread across his face. “And I must admit,” he added, his crimson eyes gleaming with a cold, cruel amusement, “your hope that all of this was real was the most entertaining part of the show.”

At Alastor’s final, brutal words, Lucifer visibly flinched as if slapped, a small, broken sound escaping him. A watery, trembling smile stretched his lips. “Oh,” he managed, his voice a mere thread, choked with unshed grief. “I… I see.” He swallowed hard. “Th-thank you… for your honesty.”

With that, he spun on his heel, turning his back sharply as the first tears finally broke free, tracing burning paths down his cheeks. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t give the Radio Demon the satisfaction of watching him, Lucifer, the King of Hell, weep over him—over the demon who so clearly, so utterly, detested him. A golden, shimmering portal ripped open in the air before him with a gesture of his hand. Without another word, without a single backward glance, Lucifer stepped through and was gone, the portal snapping shut behind him, leaving Alastor standing utterly alone in the vast, echoing silence of the Music Room.

The instant the portal vanished, the moment Lucifer was truly gone, Alastor’s meticulously crafted composure didn’t just crack; it imploded. The mocking smile dissolved, replaced by an expression of raw, unadulterated agony. A strangled gasp tore from his throat, and he staggered, his legs giving out from under him. He crashed to his knees, his hands slamming onto the polished floor, claws unsheathing and digging deep, splintering gouges into the wood as a shudder wracked his frame. His worst fear, the one that had clawed at him relentlessly since he’d realized the curse was truly broken, had just been brutally realized. He had lost Lucifer.

 

---

 

Alastor didn’t sleep a wink that night, the guilt a leaden weight in his chest, too heavy to allow even a moment’s respite. He replayed his words, the merciless way he’d spat them at Lucifer, and the terrible, dawning realization of his mistake as he’d watched the fallen angel’s expression shatter. Heartbroken. Utterly devastated. He had catastrophically misjudged Lucifer’s attitude, his words, and it had cost him dearly. All because of his own stupid, wounded pride.

Because Lucifer’s reaction hadn’t been that of someone relieved to finally be free of the curse, free of him. Perhaps it hadn’t been an illusion Lucifer was captivated by, as Alastor had erroneously convinced himself in a moment of pure panic. But now, he had irrevocably ruined everything. So, throughout the long, dark hours, he wrestled with how to try and repair the damage, how to earn forgiveness, if such a thing was even still possible.

So, in the predawn hours of the morning, he found himself in the kitchen preparing pancakes, remembering that the King often chose them for breakfast. He devoted almost maniacal care to making them extra fluffy, accompanied by a variety of sauces, from chocolate to a strawberry coulis, and finally, Chantilly cream. He waited to see if Lucifer would enter through the kitchen door with his usual confident, cheerful stride, as he often did, but time passed and there wasn’t a sign of the King. 'Predictable,' Alastor thought bitterly, his heart caught in a painful grip. 'Maybe he’ll join the others for breakfast later,' an optimistic part of him urged.

So, later, with the tray of pancakes in hand, kept warm by his magic, he reached the main dining hall of the hotel and saw everyone already seated at the table. But looking around, he saw no trace of Lucifer, and the seat next to his own—the one the others had recently taken to leaving vacant for the two of them—was empty.

With a sigh, he placed the tray in the middle of the table.

Angel, with enthusiasm, immediately served himself. “Wow, Smiles, you really went all out with breakfast this morning! Never seen such a spread!”

Alastor observed the mountain of pancakes and the abundant number of bowls containing sauces and sliced fruit. He had indeed exaggerated. The guilt was directly proportional to the contents of the serving dish.

After a little while, Charlie, concerned, said, “Everything all right, Al? You’re not touching your food. And you look a bit rough…”

Indeed, he had served himself, but the plate lay untouched in front of him, and he was unconsciously prodding its contents with his fork while his thoughts were elsewhere.

The Radio Demon immediately put on an air of nonchalance and said in a cheerful tone, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, “But of course, Charlie dear, I’m just a bit preoccupied with the final preparations and my broadcast, that’s all.”

Vaggie watched him guardedly, but said nothing.

Once breakfast was over—or at least, the pretense of having had any—Alastor rose defeatedly from his chair and made to return to his radio tower to continue brooding there, but Charlie stopped him, calling his name and pulling him aside.

“Al,” she began, “have you by any chance seen my dad last night or this morning? I’m asking because I know you two have been together a lot lately. We were supposed to meet in my office last night, but I stepped away for a moment, and when I came back, I found the documents he was supposed to give me on the desk, and he was gone.” Charlie nervously fidgeted with her fingers and continued, “And then we had agreed to discuss some details for the party this morning because he’d offered to help me with some choices for the dance music, and he was so enthusiastic about helping me out. But then he didn’t show up.” She looked him in the eyes, concern written all over her face. “Do you happen to know if something happened?”

At this, Alastor swallowed and looked away, the guilt oppressive. “I don’t know where he is, dear, but what makes you think I’d know his every move? Do you think I’m his guardian angel?”

Charlie, feeling a bit stung by his somewhat sharp attitude, said with a diminished smile, “No, of course not. It’s just that… lately, it seemed like you two were… closer.”

“You were mistaken,” Al replied, still averting his gaze, and made to leave.

“Wait, Alastor! Sorry if I said something that offended you. It’s just, I saw my dad… happy. Like I haven’t seen him in a long, long time. He always used to shut himself away in his palace and… This is the first time since I was a little girl that I’ve seen him so motivated, so enthusiastic about something. And I don’t know if it’s because of the hotel, the party, or your company. But I don’t want to see that smile disappear again. Like it did in the past,” she added, her eyes glistening.

Alastor sighed, feeling sorry for having been harsh with the princess. “You didn’t offend me, Charlie. It’s just that there’s been a misunderstanding between your father and me, and now we’re not on the best of terms.” And before she could ask, he quickly added, “But don’t worry. I’m trying to make amends.”

Charlie, knowing how Alastor could clam up when pressed, nodded with a faint smile and said, “I’m sure you’ll sort everything out. But please don’t be too hard on him. He seems proud and imperturbable, but behind that facade, he’s actually fragile and easily hurt.”

Alastor’s heart gave a lurch at this. Lucifer’s expression and his unshed tears came to mind. “I’ll remember that, Charlie dear,” he said, and with a nod, he teleported away.

 

---

 

Later that evening at dinner, Alastor arrived and took his seat at the table, his mood somber. His afternoon had been a trial; he had spent it at the radio tower, trying to distract himself with a broadcast, but his mind hadn’t been on it. Instead of his usual playlist of jazz songs, he had put on depressing, tearjerker tunes, ending the transmission early before he made himself look even more ridiculous. From the tower, he had retreated to his room.

Once there, he found himself on his bed, the small, crimson, grinning effigy of himself—Lucifer’s gift—clutched in one hand. He turned it over slowly, his thumb tracing the curve of its head, a strange ache tightening his chest. He truly treasured the absurd little thing. It was then that the gramophone in the corner crackled to life, not with his usual jaunty jazz, but with the swelling, tragically romantic strings of some overly sentimental ballad.

Alastor lay there, the music washing over him, his gaze fixed on the duck. He turned it in his hand, meticulously examining its various details—the sharp crimson, the unnervingly wide grin, the tiny, perfectly sculpted antlers, even the almost microscopic replica of his own microphone staff on its wing. Lucifer’s craftsmanship, even in such an absurd form, was rendered with an almost unnerving accuracy. The sheer attention to detail sent another confusing flicker through him as the song’s melody soared, thick with a syrupy yearning that mirrored the turmoil in his own chest. He continued to stare at the duck, lost in the music, lost in the confusing vortex of his emotions, for quite some time.

It was only when the unmistakable, iconic notes of what he belatedly recognized as “My Heart Will Go On” reached a particularly dramatic crescendo that the full, mortifying absurdity of the situation struck him. He, Alastor, the Radio Demon, was on his bed, pathetically clutching a rubber duck and letting himself be emotionally undone by Celine Dion.

What in the Hell was wrong with him?

With a snarl of self-disgust muffled by a sharp burst of static, he snapped his fingers. The music cut off abruptly mid-wail, plunging the room into a blessed, if still deeply unsettling, silence.

Little wonder, then, that even the idea of dismembering a few demons in the streets now failed to give him his usual spark of excitement as he sat at dinner.

To his surprise, shortly after everyone had started eating the meal prepared by Niffty—some kind of meat pie of dubious origin that everyone was trying to hide under the tablecloth or napkins, or even stick under the table, opting instead for bread and a side of vegetables—Lucifer finally made his appearance.

He was paler than usual, which was an almost impossible feat in itself given his fair complexion, and his eyes were reddened.

When he greeted Charlie, his smile was faint, and he took a seat next to her, on the side diametrically opposite Alastor.

He ate a few forkfuls of the pie in silence without complaining about it pompously as he would at other times, nor did he look up or make one of his dad jokes. Alastor watched him and felt a pang in his heart seeing the King, who usually shone with his own light, now so… dimmed.

Vaggie shot various worried glances at both of them and then looked at Alastor with a hostile air, still silent as she had been at breakfast. Alastor didn’t know what she was thinking.

The others also noticed the shift in the usual dynamic that had recently seen them chatting cheerfully together at the table.

Husk said nothing but shook his head slightly, observing Lucifer with a touch of compassion. Angel, however, kept whispering to Cherri, unusually agitated, as if the problem concerned him directly. And Niffty, while enthusiastically refilling the empty plates with a second helping of her pie, much to the utter dismay of the others, said after a quick glance, in a more subdued tone with her shoulders slumped, “Oh, the big bads aren’t lovey-dovey anymore! I wanted to make them King and Queen of the cockroaches, with little cockroach crowns and everything!”

Charlie looked at the two of them respectively with a thoughtful expression but said nothing, and tried to lift the subdued mood that had settled over the table, chatting about this and that and trying to involve the hotel residents.

Finally, Lucifer rose from the table and, without looking around, walked away. Alastor went after him. Unlike the last time, he didn’t materialize in front of him but simply followed.

“Lucifer, wait. We need to talk,” he said when he was close enough.

Lucifer stopped but didn’t turn. “What do you want, Radio Demon?”

Alastor hadn’t thought it would hurt so much to hear the King refer to him so coldly. “I wanted to clarify a few things.”

“Oh?” Lucifer said, turning with a sneer, his attitude cold and contemptuous. “Seems to me you’ve made things more than clear. What else is there to say? Want to rub it in some more? Does it give you satisfaction to take the King of Hell down a peg or two?”

At this, Alastor started to protest, “Listen, Luci. I—”

“NO. Don’t call me that. As you were saying, the farce is over. To you, I’m the King.” And with that, he resumed walking without giving Alastor another glance.

The deer demon turned then, and in that moment, his meticulously crafted composure seemed to splinter, an expression of raw, abject desolation washing over his features. And he found himself face to face with Charlie, who was observing him with a surprised expression. She composed herself immediately and said in a neutral tone, “Alastor, I need you in my office in about half an hour. I have to talk to you urgently about… hotel stuff.” Not accepting “no” for an answer, she immediately walked away, at a rather brisk pace, Alastor noted.

Maybe it would do him good to think about something else, because feeling as if an icy hand had just punched straight through his chest to violently squeeze his very core—leaving him breathless and with a sickening, consuming hollowness that spread like a vile contagion through his limbs—was proving to be an entirely new and excruciating form of torment.

 

---

 

Lucifer was sprawled dramatically across his bed, limbs akimbo, staring up at the silken canopy as if personally accusing it of his current misery. He almost wished the damned thing would just swallow him whole, maybe suffocate him with excessive thread count. At least then he wouldn’t have to feel this colossal, crushing weight in his chest. It was a familiar ache, echoing the despair that had settled in during the long, slow decay of his relationship with Lilith and their eventual separation, but this new agony was sharper, more humiliatingly acute. He let out a groan worthy of a dying star, one hand flung over his eyes as if to ward off the sheer indignity of it all.

As he lay there, dramatically bemoaning the general unfairness of existence and his own particular brand of exquisite suffering, a knock echoed at the door.

“Not here, come back later,” he answered, his voice flat and listless.

“Dad, you’re answering me, so I’d say you are here.”

“You’re mistaken, Char Char—must be your imagination,” Lucifer replied, his voice still stubbornly apathetic.

Charlie tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. She entered, sizing him up. At Lucifer’s words, “I told you I wasn’t here,” she said, “Uh-huh—maybe next time, if you don’t want me to come in, you should lock the door?”

“Thought I taught you better manners.”

“Ugh, Dad. I’m worried about you, okay?” Charlie said. “The last time I saw you in this state, I didn’t see you for years. You holed up in your room, hidden from everything and everyone to—” she gestured toward the shelves, “—create your ducks or whatever else.”

He looked at her with an expression of utter self-pity. “Maybe it would have been better if I’d stayed there. Let’s say… for another few centuries.”

She visibly composed herself, taking a slow, deliberate breath in and out through her nose. “Dad, I need you in the office for a moment. Now. Then you can go back to wallowing in your misery. But right now, you’re coming with me.”

Resigned, he pulled himself up from the bed and, without bothering to change out of his black pajamas, upon which was inscribed in white lettering: ‘I’d tell you to go to Hell but I work there,’ he followed her down the stairs and to the office door.

As soon as Charlie opened the door and Lucifer followed her inside, he found himself face to face with Alastor. Both surprised, they turned towards the princess, and Lucifer, indignant, said through gritted teeth, “Explain to me, Charlotte, what is he doing here?”

Charlie, with a feigned apologetic air, said, “I’m sorry, but you two evidently have a problem with each other, and you’re both too stubborn to face it.” Then, with an air of regal authority, she added, “Therefore, in my capacity as Princess of Hell and proprietor of this hotel, I order you to clear things up, and you won’t move from here until you have done so, okay?”

Lucifer deadpanned, “I’m the King, honey, that doesn’t work on me—” But he didn’t get to finish as she slipped out the door, calling back over her shoulder, “I’ll be waiting right out here. Bye!”

Lucifer and Alastor looked each other straight in the eyes, a palpable tension filling the air. It seemed the time had come to face each other again.

 

Notes:

The next chapter will be out in September. Unfortunately, I’m super busy with work right now 😩
Sorry for the wait and thank you for your patience! 🙏

Notes:

Kudos and comments are always appreciated.