Chapter Text
Alastor can feel Vox's hands on him. Even several weeks after setting himself free of his chains and witnessing Vox's (temporary) beheading via that infuriating moth of his, Alastor can still feel Vox's hands on his skin. The memory of Vox's touch sickens him. Alastor leans against his vanity to ride out the wave of tremors that wrack through him. These little spells of flashbacks remind Alastor of coming home from the Great War shell-shocked, but with much more personal and invasive memories.
Alastor grinned up at Vox, his expression defiant and full of hatred. Alastor used to find Vox distasteful, but in that moment, he entirely despised the megalomaniacal, human-bodied picture box. Vox growled and huffed like a dog at Alastor's unwillingness to play along, even for a moment. Before Alastor could make a comment about acting like such a lesser animal, Vox reached out and ripped Alastor's coat open. Some of the buttons hit Vox in the face, but the rest of them scattered across the room. Alastor's grin sharpened in fear— not that he'd ever admit it. Vox then tore Alastor's undershirt, revealing the jagged gash in his chest surrounded by gnarled scar tissue and held together by thin, neon green stitches. Vox ripped the stitches out, just like he'd done during the fight that landed Alastor in this position to begin with. Then, cackling madly, Vox stuck two of his clawed fingers into the wound. Alastor bit the insides of his mouth to fight the urge to scream.
"Shut up," Alastor snarls into the air. He feels Vox's hand curl around his neck and tries to shake off the memory. Vox isn't here, and he won't be able to get close to Alastor without someone else noticing. As much as Alastor wants to leave Charlie's blasted hotel, he cannot deny that it provides a sense of comfort, that he wouldn't be alone should Vox storm the place looking for him.
The rest of his clothes followed soon after. Shredded, left in heaps or strewn across the floor, it didn't matter. Cold, cold, cold metal trailed down, down, down Alastor's back and towards his— Tears pooled in Alastor's eyes as Vox laughed even harder. Something blunt, freezing cold, and much too big for Alastor's body— He eventually fell limp and stopped struggling. It hurt too much to keep struggling. Blood drenched everything around Alastor, and for once, it was his own.
Alastor shakes his head frantically. Breathe. What were Charlie's infernal breathing exercises? Just breathe. Breathe in, two, three. Hold, two, three. Out, two, three. See? Breathing. Alastor just needs to keep breathing.
Cold metal trailed down, down, down his spine. Alastor tried one last time to escape, but Vox responded with an electric shock. Lightning burst through Alastor's veins, frying him from the inside out. Cold, cold, cold claws dug into the base of Alastor's spine and pull, pull, pulled until Alastor caved. His teeth broke through his cheek as the pain burned through his back. He screamed in agony as Vox ripped up chunks of skin, fur, and muscle—
"Shut up!" Alastor growls, glaring at his reflection. His perpetual grin is weak, shaky. His pupils flicker back and forth between his regular red eyes and his radio dials. His ears pin down, and Alastor fights back a sob. He doesn't cry. Alastor the Radio Demon does not cry. He cannot let himself cry.
Alastor bit the inside of his lip but couldn't stop the tears from flowing. Pain, pain, every touch was pain. Every small twitch of Alastor's leg shot pain through him from the open wound in his back. Every time Vox yanked his arm, his chest burned. Every slight shift made Vox dig his claws in deeper, made his hands squeeze Alastor's neck tighter, made his hips— He tried to call on someone— anyone!— for help, but no one answered. No one cared, not in Hell. Alastor couldn't even force Niffty or Husk to appear and save him, not while his deal with Vox was still active. Alastor shut his eyes tightly, tears slipping out from under his eyelids. Vox flooded his body with electricity yet again, and Alastor was too weak to even scream.
"Stop!" The mirror shatters into tiny pieces, and Alastor collapses to the floor from the sudden wave of dizziness that washes over him. He lies on his back, staring up at his ceiling. Tears stream down the sides of his face as more shudders wrack through his too-thin frame. Alastor has long-since healed from the damage Vox had inflicted on him, but the pain lingers. The pain always lingers.
It seems that his "episode" of sorts is over and done with for now, so he sits up gingerly and takes as deep of a breath as he can afford. He temporarily adds more stitches to the mess of neon green already present. You'd think that more stitches equals faster healing, but Alastor is currently inclined to disagree.
The sharp pain ringing through his torso from the angelic wound, no doubt made worse by Vox's fascination with it, makes every breath more painful than necessary. The phantom sensation of Vox's claws wiggling around in Alastor's chest only lasts for a moment longer. Alastor groans in frustration. He tugs on Niffty's metaphysical chain. She appears in his room hardly a moment later.
"Wow, boss, you don't look so good. Need help?" Alastor smiles softly at the little cyclops demon.
"Niffty, darling, could you clean up my vanity?"
"On it!" Niffty enthusiastically brushes the shards of glass into a dustpan she conjures. She mutters manically to herself about sweeping, which Alastor politely ignores. He manages to sit up, his chest twinging in pain yet again. He needs to get the wound healed somehow, but Alastor has no idea where to start.
"Niffty, my dear, would you happen to know anything at all about healing wounds left by angelic weapons?" Niffty pauses her cleaning to turn to Alastor.
"I don't think so. Maybe the Ultimate Bad Boy would know," she gushes. Ah, yes, Niffty has returned to praising Lucifer Morningstar for being a "Bad Boy."
"Your twisted little mind fascinates me, my dear." Niffty squeals happily.
Truthfully, Alastor doesn't have as much of an issue with Lucifer as he pretends to. Oh, don't get him wrong, he loves getting under the Morningstar's skin, but that's honestly all it is. His initial distaste for the King of Hell certainly didn't last long, in the grand scheme of things. He wonders to himself if Lucifer would actually agree to help him, or if the fallen angel would just laugh in his face.
Only one way to find out, he supposes.
"Niffty, I will ask His Majesty for help immediately. If there's anything else you'd like to clean in here, be my guest." Niffty's eye sparkles in delight.
"Thank you!"
Lucifer groans and cradles his head in his arms. For the past hour or so, he'd been trying to soothe the pain splitting his brain in half, but it's flaring randomly and it feels, like, 7 times worse than before. Lucifer's muscles twitching and spasming certainly isn't helping much. It feels like he's still in the stupid box-thing, having his magic forced out of his body and siphoned dry. Except, the thing is, he's not actually in the scary box anymore, so the energy just makes him twitch and shake like an over-caffeinated chihuahua. It's exhausting.
The radio in the corner of his room— which he only keeps to listen to any channel that isn't Alastor's, thank you very much— crackles gently and begins playing jazz. Or maybe music inspired by jazz but a lot calmer. Is jazz always high-energy or has Lucifer just never heard any soft, calming jazz before?
Alastor manifests in his room, startling Lucifer out of his mental spiral.
"How are you tonight, sire?" the deer demon asks. Curiously, it doesn't sound like his usual taunting tone.
"What do you want? Can't you read?"
"Read what?" Alastor teases, his grin widening. Lucifer rolls his eyes.
"Never mind. What do you want?" Alastor tilts his head to the side, one of his ears twitching.
"I simply wished to check on you. How have you been, Your Majesty?" Lucifer's face twists up into annoyance. Alastor never really means respect when he uses titles like that.
"Why do you care?"
"Who said I care, Your Majesty? Perhaps I'm simply curious." Lucifer doesn't respond for a moment.
And that's the kicker; even if he isn't visiting because he gives a shit about Lucifer, no one else has come to check on him at all. It's been longer than a few days— Lucifer lost count after three— and the only visitor he's had was the little cyclops maid, and she didn't really talk to him. It wasn't out of malice, Lucifer thinks, she just seemed incredibly busy at the time.
"Leave me alone, Bambi." Alastor doesn't respond audibly. If he tenses or shifts weirdly, Lucifer has already buried his head into his pillow and can't see it.
The room is still and silent for a moment. Neither Lucifer nor Alastor know what to say or where to go from here. Lucifer doesn't really think Alastor will leave, but he doesn't know what Alastor will do instead. (His neck cracks and his hand smacks himself in the chest. It hurts.)
Eventually, Alastor makes a decision. The bed dips, and Lucifer's eyes widen in shock. He shoves the covers down as he sits up. He tries to look at Alastor properly, but his eye twitches and his neck muscles cramp and his head snaps to the side unwillingly. He takes a deep breath in, lets it all out, and tries again. Sure enough, Alastor is perched at the edge of Lucifer's bed.
"You're experiencing medical issues due to the machine," Alastor states. It isn't supposed to be a question, but Lucifer nods anyway. "I happen to know a few tricks to help ease the... tremors." Lucifer knows the set up for a deal just as well as he knows what a rubber duck looks like.
"What do you want in return?" he asks. Maybe a week ago, Lucifer wouldn't have been so accepting of a deal. Maybe a week ago, Lucifer would've kicked Alastor out of his room, dropping him through a portal somewhere far away from the hotel.
But a week ago, Lucifer wasn't in excruciating pain with limbs that defied his will.
"What I want..." Alastor trails off, tilting his head to the side. "I want to make a different deal. A bigger one." Lucifer's brows furrow. "But we can start with this one first."
"What is it." Lucifer is running out of patience. His wrist spasms painfully, his head jerks again, and his whole body shudders.
"I will tell you what I know regarding your bodily aches and tremors, and I will help you heal. In return, you help me with a wound that has been bothering me for quite some time. A wound of angelic nature."
Lucifer understands what Alastor is asking for immediately. The wound he received from Adam several months ago is still bothering him, which makes sense, all things considered.
"We have a deal," Lucifer says, holding out his hand. Alastor takes it, and Lucifer's magic finally has somewhere it can actually go. A burst of Lucifer's red, flame-like magic spills out into the room, pouring into Alastor's body through their clasped hands. Alastor's own green-and-black magic explodes into the air as well, dancing up the length of Lucifer's arm and sinking in.
For a brief moment, in all the swirling of magic and energy, Lucifer sees Alastor as he was when he was human. (In that same moment, Alastor sees Lucifer as he used to be, as the Seraph named Samael.)
Neither of them pull their hands away after the deal has settled. The mix of magic in the room is intoxicating, and they both feel more rejuvenated just from making the deal. Alastor still has his eyes closed, but Lucifer notices that his hair has a slight wave to it, compared to the pin-straight bob it had been just a minute ago. His smile looks softer, too.
The door bursts open. Charlie, Charlie's girlfriend, and the cat bartender guy stand on the other side. Neither Lucifer nor Alastor try to end the contact, even as Charlie's girlfriend starts drilling them for information. One of Alastor's ears twitches in annoyance.
"Vaggi, I implore you to stop yelling and simply ask us your questions," Alastor says through clenched teeth. Which is different to when he talks with a radio mouth. Lucifer kind of wants to know how that works.
"Fine. Did you and Lucifer make a deal?"
"Why, of course we did!" Alastor raises their still-linked hands to prove it.
"What was the deal for?"
"It was a simple little thing, really. None of your concern."
Charlie steps in, wringing her hands nervously. "Is it like the deal we had? No souls involved, and no one gets hurt?" Lucifer cuts a pointed look towards Alastor, who nods at them both.
"Exactly that, my dear. He does me one small favour that hurts no one, and I give him information in return. No souls involved at all," Alastor explains. Charlie sighs in relief. Lucifer relaxes a bit. Charlie used past-tense, so the deal between them is no more, and Alastor just confirmed there were no souls exchanged between them. Good.
"Okay. Okay, sorry. I just... panicked. Sorry." Alastor makes a dismissive noise, which sets everyone on edge. "What was that?"
"It's just hilarious that you care so much about your father and I making a deal, but you haven't even bothered to check on us beforehand! It's simply outstanding that you claim to care oh-so-much, when I was the one to get him back to the hotel as we both bled out!" Alastor's hand tightens around Lucifer's as his temper rises, but Lucifer refuses to let go. His magic is still softly batting against Alastor's, making the twitches and tremors ease, and it's nice not being in pain.
Charlie gasps in shock, then covers her mouth. Her eyes start to water.
"How could you say that? I love my dad, of course I care about him!"
"And yet, you haven't checked on him once!"
Lucifer laughs softly. It's weak and fragile in a way that unsettles him. Alastor turns away from the group at the door, squeezing Lucifer's hand once. Lucifer squeezes back, then drops his hand to his lap. His neck immediately twitches as his energy stops pouring into Alastor. He tries to say something, but his neck cracks awfully and his elbow jabs into his side. He makes a gross noise as air gets caught in his throat. Alastor carefully scoots closer, pressing his hand against Lucifer's. The easy flow of magic returns. (He is so not letting go again if he can help it.)
"Dad? Are you okay?" Lucifer searches his daughter's face. Concern, fear, a bit of anger (probably at Alastor's words), and... Is that disgust? Charlie tries to step closer, but Alastor's ears flatten and his lips pull back in a silent snarl. He doesn't do anything else, even as Charlie wraps Lucifer in a hug.
"Being used as a battery had some side effects," Lucifer says. Hurt worms its way into his chest. He'd been doing a pretty swell job at repressing the emotions that came from being, you know, used as a battery, and the overwhelming physical sensations definitely helped him ignore the mental stuff, but...
"Which you would have known if you had checked on him earlier than when he made a deal with me," Alastor snips. "Now, if you don't mind, we do have a deal to settle." The bartender bows out of the room with a wave. If Lucifer had to guess, he was only here because of Alastor's magical signature. Charlie's girlfriend looks between Alastor (guarded, annoyed, threatened. Threatened? Wait—) and Lucifer warily, then sighs.
"Come on, Charlie. You'll be able to talk to him later. Just let him and Al finish things up." The voice of reason, that girl is. Alastor's ears perk back up as Charlie releases Lucifer from the embrace— an embrace Lucifer had not reciprocated. Lucifer can't remember the last time he didn't hug his daughter back. (He does remember the last time he felt so empty, though, and that was after Lilith left. Eugh. Bad thought.)
"We'll talk later, dad, okay? Just..." Charlie looks between Alastor and Lucifer, then smiles weakly. "I love you."
"I love you too, Charlie." Her face falls again, and her girlfriend drags her out of the room before the waterworks start again. The door closes with a definite slam. It... It doesn't make Lucifer feel any more empty, and it doesn't hurt as much as it should. Tears brim in Lucifer's eyes, but they don't fall.
Alastor's magic jolts him back into his body. "Sire, our deal?"
"Right. Right." Lucifer's eye twitches and his elbow jerks. "I kinda need to see the wound, though." Alastor's smile sharpens.
"Ah, right, that... That makes sense." Still, Alastor hesitates. Lucifer gets the feeling that being exposed is not his preferred state of being.
"Would you like help? Just so I know how to heal you."
"Just so... Right. Right, yes." Lucifer slowly undoes the first button on Alastor's coat. Alastor's posture is rigid, his smile is sharp, and his eyes track the movements of Lucifer's hands. When all of his layers have been opened, Lucifer winces in horror. Alastor's makeshift stitches unwind until the wound is laid bare.
"How in Hell have you managed to survive this long? That's— Oh, Father, this is so bad."
"Can you heal it?"
"I mean, yeah, but not right now, not all at once. This is infected! Infected and- and-" Lucifer's neck snaps to the side and his headache comes back with a vengeance. He hisses in pain as stars dance through his vision.
"Why ever not?" Alastor's completely even tone jolts Lucifer out of his spiralling.
"Magic has limits, even mine. My power is trying to heal me of wounds that have already closed, and it feels like I'm still being siphoned by the scary box, so my magic is flowing outwards with nowhere to focus it. If I were to focus it all on you, it would overload you and you'd probably explode. I can't control it right now."
Alastor falls silent, even his consistent ambient radio static vanishing for a moment. Lucifer notices something moving behind Alastor and leans over. Alastor's shadow is crawling along the floor, poking all of Lucifer's rubber ducks and investigating the stuff Lucifer shoved underneath his bed.
"What are you doing?" he murmurs. Alastor's shadow stiffens, then snaps back into place beneath Alastor's feet. Lucifer smiles.
"Don't mind her," Alastor says, equally as quietly. "She's just curious. I believe the 'bigger deal' I mentioned earlier might help with the power control aspect of things."
Lucifer cocks his head to the side in confusion. "What do you mean? What's your bigger deal?"
"You cannot protect yourself from sinners. You cannot protect Charlie from sinners. You are unable to punish sinners that get too big for their breeches." Lucifer's body twitches and shivers and aches. "I can. I can hurt anyone who gets too haughty, that gets too close. I can protect you, Lucifer."
Lucifer's mouth feels too dry all of a sudden. His eyes widen, his jaw twinges, and he feels something fluttering in his stomach. Nausea or nerves? He doesn't know. (His neck jerks and he feels more ill than nervous.)
"You want to be a knight? A guard dog? What would you get out of this?" Alastor holds up a finger.
"Now, sire, I am not a fan of dogs. I wish to be your executioner." Lucifer has heard stories of the devil's supposed executioner. Obviously, he's never had one before, but... He has to admit, the offer is appealing.
"Still, what do you get? Why will this help me?"
"Your primary issue right now is an excess of magic with nowhere to go. If you were to somehow share your power with me, then it wouldn't turn inwards and wreak havoc on your nervous system. I could be your outlet. In return, the power at my disposal will allow me to punish sinners in your stead. When Vox no doubt rears his ugly, flat-screened television head again..." Lucifer is slightly taken aback at how venomous Alastor's tone had turned while saying the TV guy's name. Then, Lucifer notices the look in his eyes.
Fear. A horrible, palpable fear. Vox did something to Alastor while he was held prisoner. For once, Alastor isn't attempting a desperate bid for power just for the sake of it, but to regain control over himself. Alastor lost something to Vox.
Without thinking about it, Lucifer lifts a hand to Alastor's cheek. A small, terrified noise breaks from Alastor's throat— a sound that kind of reminds Lucifer of a baby deer. A fawn. Alastor's facade crumbles.
Tears spill from Alastor's eyes, roll down the back of Lucifer's hand, and drip onto the blanket between them. Alastor looks scared, surprised, and devastated all at the same time.
"What are you doing?" Alastor whispers. Lucifer, truthfully, doesn't know. There's no explosion of magic, but Lucifer can feel Alastor's moving through the air. He can feel the cool rain, the summer's humidity, and the sharp chill of shadows press against his skin. Alastor's eyes droop closed. Lucifer wonders what his own magic feels like, that it's soothing something so deeply wounded inside of Alastor's soul.
"The terms of our second deal. I will allow you to access my magic so you can use it as your own. In return, you become my executioner. If I direct you towards someone, you enact my will. If I tell you not to engage with someone, you will not engage. You will protect me, and you will protect Charlie. That is what I will agree to." Alastor opens his eyes and pulls his tear-streaked face away from Lucifer. He takes his hand.
"We have a deal."