Chapter Text
It felt like a bad dream, watching the King of Hell flapping his wings outside the huge window Vox had planted Alastor in front of, right before leaving to 'take care of more important matters'. A cosmic joke – that he would show up now, a look of almost absent curiosity on his face as his gaze roamed over the flashing LED's and the reflections of Pentagram City below.
A bad dream – or a nightmare, for Alastor's throat roiled with bitter bile when those eyes finally managed to pick him out amongst the other distractions. Lucifer's face lit up in a smug grin, the king drifting closer – close enough to tap on the glass like Alastor was some creature in a zoo.
His lip curled. He shouldn't have reminded himself of the phrasing.
Lucifer said something, but that glass was thick enough to block out the cacophony of noise from the city – there was no way Alastor was hearing a word he said. He rolled his eyes, wriggling slightly against his bonds as he tried – fruitlessly – to shrug his shirt more fully onto his shoulder. Lucifer mouthed something else, pressing his palm up against the glass – and wind whistled briefly past Alastor's aching ears, quickly smothered as the glass Lucifer had just stepped through snapped back into place.
“Alright, bellhop. You've been slacking off enough, it's time to get back to the hotel instead of playing your little... uh... tied-up. To a chair? Your little...” What had started as a mocking announcement quickly faded, Lucifer lowering his hands from behind his head as his self-importance deflated.
It hadn't taken him long, though Alastor dearly wished his eyes weren't lingering on the dishevelled state of his clothing – his hastily buttoned shirt, his open belt. The zipper on his slacks that lay conspicuously open. He watched as Lucifer's gaze darted around the room, suspicion morphing into something even worse than his condescension had been.
Concern.
If Alastor hadn't been muzzled, he might have said something. Might have come out with some witty retort about how he'd never thought the King of Hell needed to reduce himself to leering at sinners – but the key word was might. Even Alastor was self-aware enough to realise his already tenuous grasp on sanity was hanging on by a thread; he hadn't slept properly in days, occasionally nodding off in his chair only to find himself jerked awake by a set of claws on his scalp. Everything about him felt ready to snap, and as Lucifer reached forward, the threads of his composure frayed just that little bit further.
He jerked away from those reaching fingers, slamming his back into the chair as his breath quickened in his chest and bile rose in his throat. Lucifer froze, his eyes widening – before he yanked his hands back and held his palms up, shaking his head in emphatic denial.
“No – whatever you're thinking, stop thinking it. I'm not – I mean, I just want to get that thing off you. God, can you imagine? I never thought I'd be bothered by the fact you've been made to shut up,” Lucifer added in a mutter. Alastor trembled in place, hating how visible his shudders were, the strain of the cables against his chest.
His pulse pounded in his ears, every beat of his heart just another thump of pain against already bruised and battered flesh – and heat crept into his face at how pointedly Lucifer did not lower his gaze. Disgusted by what he was seeing, no doubt, and for good reason. Alastor could acknowledge how pathetic he looked.
Still, the idea of having the mask Vox had silenced him with taken off appealed too much to keep struggling – even if he’d had anywhere to go. For all that Alastor could wriggle and flail in place, if Lucifer – or anybody – wanted to do anything to him, Alastor had precious few avenues to avoid it.
He’d learned that well enough in the few days – a week? Could it have been a week already? – That he’d been Vox’s prisoner.
His static squealed as Lucifer stepped up to his side, claws reaching into his hair to find the clasps keeping that muzzle in place. His vocal cords crackled as the interference Vox had used to mute him fell away, and he jolted anew as Lucifer’s fingers snagged on dried blood, pausing in his hair – before wandering higher.
“Don’t touch me!” Alastor bit out, panic almost choking him with how quickly it gripped his throat. Another thread of his self-control frayed, but he’d had enough of people touching him. Rosie, Vox, Valentino, Velvette – all of them, to differing extents; poking, prodding, petting, pushing, pulling – the idea of another set of hands remaining on him any longer than necessary was enough that he’d rather peel his own skin off, piece by piece, just so Lucifer wouldn’t have the chance.
“I’m trying to help you!” Lucifer snapped back, irritation colouring his voice. He did remove his hands, though, Alastor’s heart slowing in its gallop at their absence. Something in him could have sobbed with relief, if he’d still been capable of such weakness. Lucifer had listened.
It was the first time in far too long that somebody had done something he’d said. His grasp over things had been slipping ever since that disastrous fight with the first fool, and it almost made him a little dizzy to realise it. That the first person to have listened was the very man who’d been the biggest thorn in his side for weeks.
“I’m… I’m trying to help. Let me untie you, and then I won’t – I won’t touch you at all. Come on, Alastor. I’m your only way out of this.” Lucifer’s voice had turned soft, the kind of voice one used when trying to coax a frightened animal out of its burrow.
If only the comparison weren’t so apt.
Alastor wasn’t sure what was worse – the way he had to hold himself still whilst Lucifer carefully extracted him from the cables pinning him to the chair, or the shame that rose anew in him when their loosening exposed even more of how rumpled he looked. How… used.
He fumbled for his zipper, dragging it up with shaking claws as he fought to suck enough air past the tightening of his throat. He’d had it all planned – he’d gone into this willingly – only to find that Vox had grown in depravity even faster than he’d grown in power. Another mistake, another deal he’d considered to his benefit only to be slapped in the face by his own hubris. He scooted forward on his chair, reaching back to try and stuff his tail under his belt.
“I’ve just gotta check, Al. You know how the people are. They want to – oh, shit. You actually…! Fuck, that’s perfect. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone else about it. This is too good to share.”
A bleat of undisguised pain echoed in his throat as his own claws wrapped around his tail, his entire spine sparking with the agony of bruised, singed flesh. Even the corners of his eyes watered as he pulled his hand away as if burnt. It was just going to have to stay out, and if Lucifer so much as thought about mocking him for it, then…
Then…
Then nothing, surely, because he was right. He was Alastor’s only way out of this.
He couldn’t even resent the bitter taste such an admission of defeat created on the back of his tongue – he was still choking on his humiliation at Vox’s hands. Determined, wandering hands, creeping over his frame until his skin crawled, slipping between his thighs like a mocking simulacrum of the tenderness of a lover’s touch. Lightheadedness briefly threatened to overwhelm him, his stomach roiling as he fought down a wave of nausea.
“Can you walk?”
What?
Oh – in the spiral of his own self-loathing, Alastor had very nearly forgotten Lucifer was still present. He shoved the cables in his lap onto the floor, clenching his teeth in a rictus grin.
“Of course I can walk,” he snapped, planting his feet and pushing himself upright – only to almost crash through that window when his knees refused to lock into place, pins and needles sparking throughout his nerves. The blood-flow returning to his calves was downright painful, his heart lurching into his throat – and then Lucifer was there.
He didn’t grab at Alastor, didn’t try to stop him falling – he simply stepped forward and put his back to him, a solid surface for Alastor to grab onto. His hands were still splayed at his sides, an open declaration that he had no intention of ignoring Alastor’s demand – and he didn’t even wince when Alastor’s claws tore through the white fabric of his coat, fingers scrabbling for purchase.
“Ready to go?” Lucifer murmured. Alastor sagged against him, every part of him quivering as he struggled to get his body to obey his commands.
He hesitated.
“Lucifer,” Alastor said quietly, even as the sparks of a portal swirled into existence before them. “I – if you take me out of here, my deal with Vox will be broken.” Here was where Lucifer would show his true colours – and who would blame him? His own daughter mattered far more to him than the freedom of one disgraced Overlord.
“He will no longer be held by his agreement not to lay a hand on Charlie.”
Alastor felt the other man tense under his hands, the stiffening of his shoulders. He waited for Lucifer to pull away, to send him sprawling onto the floor like a pile of dirty laundry. Seconds ticked by, each one stretching for an eternity – until the portal finished coalescing, and Alastor saw his very own hotel room door through the window.
“We’ll deal with that. She might have been… distracted, lately – but I doubt she wants another friend suffering because of her. She already went through enough because of P… Pend…”
“Pentious,” Alastor supplied when Lucifer stumbled over the name, not quite able to believe what was happening when Lucifer tugged him forward. Alastor’s shoes scraped on the floor as he did his best to walk under his own power, but there was no denying that the way he gripped Lucifer’s shoulders was akin to a drowning man clinging to a life buoy.
“Yeah,” Lucifer agreed, dismissing the portal as cold tile turned to garish rugs under Alastor’s feet. The hum of electricity vanished in an instant, the world suddenly seeming as if it had gone on mute – and Alastor’s ears tried to lift from his head as Lucifer pushed open his door, the scent of his own rooms hitting him like a freight train.
So very different to Vox’s space. No odour of ozone, no odd cleanliness of disinfectant or the sickeningly sweet smell of Valentino’s cigarettes. Only the warmth of swamp-rot, the bitter smell of tobacco and coffee, the scent of worn leather. Home.
Astounding, how one could start to think of a place as such without realising it.
“Are you still… I mean, there’s blood in your hair,” Lucifer said uncomfortably, starting to tug Alastor towards the four-poster bed with its hanging curtains of vines, quickly reconsidering it when Alastor tried to scramble properly upright. He berated his heart for its sudden panic, cursed his tail for how it trembled as it pressed down over his belt – but he breathed a staticky sigh when Lucifer stopped in front of one of his armchairs.
Yes. There was blood in his hair, how astute of Lucifer to notice. Alastor reached out to support his weight using the arm of the chair, sinking into it – barely resisting the urge to pull his legs up and tuck himself into its depths, to use its high back and sides as a shield.
He tried to force his ears upright again, wincing with a pop of static when they throbbed. His hands still shook when he finally lifted them to his shirt, embarrassed all over again that it had taken him this long to try and make himself even a touch more presentable.
“What’s–”
A movement out of the corner of his eye, fingers reaching towards his head. Fingers that wanted to pet and stroke and fondle, to yank at his ears if he tried to pull away, to tear the delicate skin at the base of them with their demands. Static screeched and feedback squealed, and Alastor bit into his own lip in his haste to drag up a snarl, his eyes flicking black as shadowy flames danced on his arms.
Lucifer yelped, jerking his hand back and shoving both of them into his own armpits, stammering out another apology.
“Sorry! Shit, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking – that was my bad. Um – but you’re hurt, and… and, well, it’s kind of my fault? Let me help,” Lucifer said in a rush, his eyes so wide it was a wonder they didn’t pop right out of his skull.
He was barely audible over the rush of Alastor’s own pulse echoing in his ears, the drum of his heart against his ribs. Once again, dizziness tried to sink its claws into his mind, and Alastor forced himself to breathe – to answer the burning in his lungs with the sweet inhale of oxygen. He eyed Lucifer warily, not sure if he wanted to know how the man possibly thought to take the blame for Alastor’s own choices.
“I don’t need your pity,” Alastor managed to hiss out.
Why wouldn’t Lucifer just leave? Let him recover in peace, to manage his pain as he’d always managed it – by himself. Lucifer shook his head in denial, red sparks darting about his hands as a bowl of water appeared on the coffee table, a cloth and a bottle sitting next to it.
“Trust me, you’re far from pitiable. But you are hurt, right? Come on. Isn’t it bad enough that I’ve seen it – do you really want me to leave you like this? To let somebody else…?” Lucifer let the question hang, and it wasn’t a threat – it was a fact. Niffty. Husk. Charlie, even, blundering into his space because she had no concept of boundaries – yes. Somebody else would find him before he’d recovered.
Water splashed, and Alastor once more dragged himself into the present, stumbling out of the depths of his own mind. It was usually such a comfortable place to retreat to, but now it was filled with the buzz of electricity, the cold press of metal claws against a body that barely felt like it belonged to him any longer.
Lucifer was soaking the cloth and wringing it out, rubbing ointment into the fabric. It smelled vaguely herbal, slightly minty, and Alastor’s nose wrinkled with distaste. Lucifer’s gaze darted to his expression, a rueful, careful smile spreading over his lips.
“I know it stinks. But it’ll help with cuts or bruising – or swelling. Here.” Lucifer offered Alastor the cloth, and Alastor rubbed the pads of his fingers against the warmth of it. A part of him expected this to be a trap of some kind – that he might wrap this cloth around his ears and discover that it had been laced with caustic acid. That Lucifer’s reassuring smile would turn cruel, that he’d laugh at the fact Alastor had been so foolish as to trust this tentative truce.
But the ache in his ears was getting harder and harder to ignore, particularly in the warmth of his own rooms. In the coldness of Vox’s tower that constant throbbing had been dulled – but now it pounded against his skin, itching and burning in equal measure. He lifted the cloth to his head and carefully arranged it around his ears, a comforting compress.
A hiss escaped him as his ears stung – but whatever was in that bottle Lucifer had brought forth quickly numbed that discomfort, his ears flat to his skull and the damp, warm cloth surrounding them. His lids dipped to half-mast – and shot open again when Lucifer’s hand edged in at the corner of his vision, adrenaline sweeping through his system at the fact that he hadn’t even heard the other man approach.
Something twisted in him at the sight of another cloth, of Lucifer’s confused grimace. His immediate desire was to tear that compress off his head, to restore to himself one of his most important senses – how else would he be alerted to another’s presence when he was half dozing, recovering from his ordeal?
But he didn’t want to. It was weak to admit it, even to himself, but he was loathe to surrender the meagre comfort this compress was providing. Lucifer blinked at the widening of his eyes, hastily backing away and heading towards the door – and something lurched in Alastor’s chest again.
If he was left alone, there was nothing to pull him out of the mire of his own memories, to stop him from playing over and over again the cold scrape of metal claws over his stomach, his thighs – elsewhere. He felt like he might be sick – and what emerged from his mouth might even have been worse.
“Stay!” He blurted, the demand breaking free of him before he could rein it back. Lucifer turned, brows twisted in silent question as Alastor’s cheeks reddened. What was one more heaping of humiliation on the amount he’d already withstood?
“I don’t… I can’t hear anything, with this on. If somebody… and I’d rather not…” Alastor trailed off. Lucifer was the first person in an age to have demonstrated an ounce of kindness, and how pathetic was it that Alastor clung to such a thing? His control frayed further, his claws tearing into the second cloth as he tried to get the hissing of his static under control.
Shadows crept in at the edge of his vision, because this was ridiculous – and something warm and solid pressed against his leg.
Lucifer’s back, leaning against him where the man had seated himself silently on the floor at Alastor’s feet. He said nothing, and Alastor did not thank him – but nor did he lash out and kick him away.
He simply wrapped the second compress around his tail, focusing on the warmth of Lucifer’s body against his calf.
His very own star, guiding him out of the quicksand of his own memories.
~fin~