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Alastor has been acting weird.
Well, Lucifer is personally of the opinion that Alastor is always acting weird—he’s a shifty bastard by nature. But he's been especially shifty lately, ever since they’d rebuilt the hotel.
He hasn’t been using his powers very much; only the standard radio static layered atop his voice, as well as the occasional shadow travel. He’s been leaving staff meetings early, simply saying he has important business to attend to.
Potentially the most concerning of his new habits, though, is that his smiles keep slipping when he thinks no one is looking. They’re never gone altogether, but he loses enough of his forced enthusiasm to have Lucifer on edge.
At first, he thought that Alastor was up to something nefarious. Nobody had seen him slink away from the fight on Extermination Day or knew what he was doing, but evidently, he wasn’t there to stop Adam.
Not that he could have. Adam had been an angel for almost as long as Lucifer has been in hell, and he’d had all that time to garner power. Alastor, by comparison, has only been a demon for, what, a century?
Frankly, it had been foolish to think he could take on Adam alone. Lucifer is the very embodiment of Pride, but he thinks that perhaps Alastor’s ego had taken the cake that day.
Regardless, it had taken him a day or two for Lucifer to realize that Alastor wasn’t acting weird because of some ulterior motive—he was acting weird because he was injured.
Lucifer had only caught on because Alastor passed by him a little too close, and he felt a flare of angelic energy reaching out for his own.
The sinner had faltered at that exact moment, and it suddenly all made sense. He’d disappeared during the battle because he had to retreat. He didn’t show back up until the hotel was already rebuilt because he had to treat his wound, and because he couldn’t have done any of the heavy lifting without giving himself away. He’d been acting weird because he was in pain.
What doesn’t make sense is why he hasn’t said anything. He hasn’t gotten a real look at the thing, but the wound Alastor had recieved was absolutely angelic in nature, and if it was Adam who inflicted him with said injury, the fucker could die.
Wounds made by angelic blades don’t heal—not on demons, in any case. If anything, they get worse. And it’s been days since the battle.
He made up his mind then and there, deciding that when Alastor retreated back to his room or tower or wherever the fuck it is that he tucks his tail and runs to, Lucifer would follow.
Which is how he had ended up here, he supposes.
He stares at the Radio Demon’s door in apprehension for a moment, knowing that Alastor won’t react kindly to his visit, nor his offer of help.
But, for better or worse, Charlie is attached to the guy. If he dies and Lucifer had known it was a possibility, not only would Charlie be upset with him—frankly, he’d be upset with himself for letting it happen.
So, bracing himself for the inevitable conflict, he knocks.
There’s no answer for a moment, and Lucifer is debating if he should knock again or simply let himself in when the door opens.
Alastor looks down at him in disdain, his smile losing some of its pep.
“Your Majesty,” Alastor says, the crackle of radio feedback in his voice spiking as he speaks, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
Lucifer doesn’t bother with preambles. “I know you’re injured,” he says plainly.
Alastor’s eyes narrow, and he tries to shut the door in Lucifer’s face. Luckily, the angel is faster, and he slaps his hand down on the front of the door, stopping it completely. The sinner can’t even budge it against Lucifer’s strength. He glares up at the Overlord, gritting his teeth.
“Listen to me, you dense motherfucker,” Lucifer hisses, “That wound will kill you. It’s only a matter of time. Sinners can’t handle that type of holy energy for very long; frankly, it’s a surprise that you’re still alive.”
“I’m sure you’re absolutely delighted at the concept,” Alastor practically snarls, “but I assure you, I have it well under control.”
“I am trying to help you, dipshit,” Lucifer snaps, pushing the door fully open to allow himself entry.
Alastor, stunned by the show of force, stumbles away from the door and instinctually grasps at his chest. Lucifer can see fresh blood starting to seep into his dress shirt. He kicks the door closed behind him without taking his eyes off of Alastor, and the sinner backs up a step.
“I will give you one warning,” Alastor growls, “Get. Out.”
Lucifer scoffs. “You can’t hurt me and you know it,” he says, taking another step forward, “I can heal you, idiot. If you would just let me look— “
“Absolutely not,” Alastor snaps back, “If you so much as touch me, one of us is going to have to explain to your daughter why the other one is dead.”
Lucifer opens his mouth to respond when he feels it again—that angelic energy settled into Alastor’s skin reaching out for him. It makes him wonder. Tentatively, he reaches out with his aura, grasping the lingering trails of Adam’s attack, and pulls.
The only indication that Alastor had noticed was a slight twitch of his ear. Lucifer is frustrated, and he’s tired of the back and forth already, and this is a risk; but it’s certainly better than just sitting by and watching Alastor waste away.
“Fine,” Lucifer says, “I won’t touch you.”
This is the only warning he gives before he yanks at the holy energy, its grasp on Alastor giving with barely a fight.
It’s enough to make Alastor jolt forward in surprise, but he isn’t writhing on the ground, which is good enough for him. Alastor narrows his eyes.
“What did you do?” he asks, voice low and dangerous.
Frankly, Lucifer isn’t entirely sure what the answer to that question is. He starts to ponder, but the moment he fully absorbs the energy from Alastor’s wound, his chest burns. Searing pain erupts from his left shoulder down to his right hip, and it takes all of his self control not to double over in pain, holy shit, is this what Alastor has been putting up with since the Extermination?
What he does know is that Alastor’s person has no lingering trace of holy power, and when the sinner presses his hand to his chest, there’s only an expression of confusion—not one of pain.
“What,” Alastor repeats, “did you do? ”
“Healed you,” Lucifer responds, hoping the strain in his voice isn’t as evident as he feels like it must be. He’s not a hundred percent sure, to be fair, but he can guess by the white hot pain he feels in the moment that he’s not exactly lying.
Alastor is healed. He doesn’t need to know how.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” Lucifer says, “Since you’re not going to keel over dead any time soon, my job here is done, so I’ll be taking my leave.”
He would stay and make sure that Alastor is truly healed if he didn’t need to get the fuck out of here. He can’t let on that he didn’t know what would happen if he pulled like that, and he definitely can’t let on that he’d, apparently, taken Alastor’s own injury upon himself. The sinner would never let him live it down.
He turns and, leaning on his cane for support, exits the room, feeling blood red eyes on him right up until he shuts the door behind him.
He brings a shaking hand up to his chest and presses on it, and he can already feel the warm wetness of golden blood soaking into his clothing.
Fuck.
Perhaps he should have thought about this in a little bit more depth than “grab angelic contrails > yoink > profit,” but he’s never been amazing with his impulse control.
Okay. Alright. Fuck.
He glances down the hallway, grimacing at the length of space between his room and Alastor’s. Normally, he’s grateful for it, but now…
He grits his teeth. Alastor hadn’t been using his powers very much since the fight, and Lucifer wonders now if it’s wise to simply teleport into his room. Perhaps not.
But he also is fairly certain that he’ll eat shit and pass out if he has to walk the entire length of the hotel right now, which would be… bad. Not just because someone could find him and freak the fuck out, but also because this wound was inflicted upon Alastor using angelic steel.
The single thing they know of that can kill an angel.
He doesn’t know if that applies to a fallen archangel like himself, but he doesn’t want to find out.
He gathers his courage, taking as deep a breath as he can with the agony prying at his rib cage, and teleports.
Okay, yeah. Unwise, definitely.
He nearly keels over when he’s materialized within his own room, black spots dancing across his vision. He had hoped that, perhaps, it wouldn’t be so bad for him since he’s not a demon, and therefore not the creatures that angelic weaponry is meant to cut to the quick, but he is still unholy in nature, he supposes. His towering horns and whip of a tail are proof enough of that fact.
He lets out a pained growl, trying to force his shaking hands to cooperate and undo the clasps on his coat. He has to get a look at what he’s dealing with.
He stumbles towards the bathroom when he feels a presence, whipping his head around to the darkest corner of his room.
Alastor steps out of the shadows.
He’s much more put together than he was when Lucifer left his room, looking at him with a critical eye. Lucifer is frozen in his spot, staring at Alastor like a deer in the headlights.
“I was going to demand that you tell me what you did back there,” Alastor says, as though he’s talking about the damn weather, “but I suppose I know now, hm?”
Lucifer’s mouth opens and closes a few times, wondering how to respond before he settles on, “In my defense, I had no idea that this would be the result.”
Alastor raises a brow. “Then what did you think would happen?”
“I thought I would just pull the energy out so you could heal naturally,” Lucifer admits.
The sinner clicks his tongue. “Alright, then,” he says, “Where do you keep your medical supplies?”
Lucifer stares at him, uncomprehending. “My—huh?”
Alastor rolls his eyes. “Your medical supplies,” he repeats, “Where are they?”
He blinks, one eyelid at a time. “Bathroom,” he slurs. Ah, hell, he’s really bleeding now, isn’t he?
Alastor starts to head towards the bathroom in Lucifer’s suite, removing his coat and hanging it off of the corner of the bathroom door. Deftly, he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. “Come along, then,” he says, “Let’s get this over with.”
Is… is Lucifer just losing cognitive function from blood loss, or is Alastor trying to help him? Dumbfounded, he stumbles after the demon.
“Where?” Alastor asks plainly.
“Uh.” Lucifer points towards the cabinet under the sink, and Alastor bends down to pull his medical supplies out. He honestly didn’t think he’d ever need any of it, but Charlie had insisted that every resident have a fully stocked first aid kit in case of an emergency. Yet another thing he needs to thank Charlie for.
Once Alastor has set the first aid kit on the bathroom counter, he simply turns and, without asking, picks Lucifer up from under his armpits and hoists him onto the counter next to it. Lucifer squawks in protest.
“Hush,” the sinner responds, firm but oddly gentle as he goes about the lengthy process of removing Lucifer’s coat, vest, and shirt, “You’re too short for me to deal with it properly, and jumping up here yourself wouldn’t have been wise. The brief indignation is preferable to death, I would assume.”
“Could’a warned me,” he grumbles in response.
“You didn’t warn me when you snatched an entire, life-threatening injury from me,” Alastor counters, “I would say that we’re even on that front.”
Touché.
The demon gets the last layer of Lucifer’s top ensemble undone and pushes it off of his shoulders, tossing the bloodied clothing to the bathroom floor to deal with later. Lucifer comes to the realization that he’d lost his hat as well, somewhere along the way.
The angel looks down to take stock of himself, frowning at exactly how soaked he is in his own blood.
Well, fuck. He needs that.
Alastor grabs a clean washcloth from the towel rack, wiping away some of the blood to get a better look at the injury.
“Am I correct in assuming that teleporting here didn’t go too well?” he questions.
“Yeah,” he responds, “Painful. Exhausting.”
Alastor hums in thought. “I wouldn’t recommend trying to heal this with your powers, then. At least not until you've regained your mental faculties. We don’t know how it will respond to something like that, and it’s probably better to wait until you’re a healthy 10 or so feet from death’s door, rather than on the porch step.”
Lucifer simply watches him as he wets the washcloth with soapy water, squeezing out some of the moisture before looking back to the wound.
“This will hurt,” he warns, and Lucifer’s fingers wrap around the edge of the counter in preparation. He nods, and Alastor presses the cloth to the edge of the wound, cleaning methodically. Lucifer grits his teeth so hard that he’s vaguely worried that he’ll break his jaw.
“Honestly,” the sinner chides, “You had no idea what could happen, pulling a stunt like this. You could have killed me. But instead, you’ve gone and threatened your own life, and you can’t even heal yourself. At least if the damn thing was still on me, it could be healed.”
Lucifer huffs, grasping so tightly at the counter that he hears it crack. Whoops. “Would you have let me?” he counters, strained.
Alastor is quiet for a moment. “…No,” he admits.
“Why are you doing this, anyways?” Lucifer questions, “If you didn’t want to touch me so bad that you’d have died for it, why are you suddenly okay with it now?”
“I don’t care if I have to touch you, ” Alastor clarifies, “I care if anyone touches me.”
So, this is the better outcome, Lucifer doesn’t say aloud. He sure thinks it hard, though. If Alastor had truly refused to let Lucifer touch him, he would have died. Full stop. Demons aren’t meant to heal from these things.
Conversely, while this fucking blows, Lucifer is a lot more sturdy than someone like Alastor. If nobody had intervened, it may have posed a real issue to the angel. As it stands, though, with Lucifer watching Alastor thread a suturing needle, he’s pretty sure he’ll be fine.
“This will… also hurt,” the demon says, “Try not to move too much.”
Lucifer nods, and Alastor gets to work. There’s a moment of silence as the sinner works, Lucifer doing his damnedest not to flinch when he feels the needle pierce his skin.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he says after a moment.
“What question?”
“Why are you doing this?” Lucifer clarifies, “What do you get out of this?”
Alastor’s brow furrows in concentration. He never falters in his work. “If you must know,” he says, “I don’t like to be in debt. A life for a life, as they say—you healed me, I patch you up. Simple.”
“You wouldn’t have owed me anything,” Lucifer mumbles, “I don’t operate like that.”
“Well, regardless,” Alastor counters, “we’re here now. I might as well see it through. I can’t imagine dear Charlie would be thrilled with me if she found her father’s dead body with only half the necessary stitches to keep him alive.”
Fair enough.
Alastor finishes the rest of the stitches in silence. When he ties off the last one, he reaches into the first aid kit, digging out a handful of gauze pads and a roll of bandages.
The bandaging is slow going, seeing as none of the pads are big enough to encompass his entire torso. Alastor has to tape each one down individually until the wound is covered, then he gets to work wrapping it all up.
Alastor puts his hands on his hips, leaning back to examine his handiwork. When he seems satisfied, he begins packing away the rest of the first aid kit. With everything put away, he turns back to Lucifer.
“Are you capable of walking?”
Lucifer thinks about it for a second before nodding. Alastor moves to help him off of the counter, but the angel holds a hand up to stop him. Slowly, he slides off the counter, carefully lowering himself until his hooves are firmly on the floor.
Huh. When did he lose his boots?
He exits the bathroom, slowly making his way over to his bed. Alastor watches him critically, grabbing his coat from the door as Lucifer sits down on the edge of the bed and heaves a sigh.
“If that’s all you need,” Alastor says, examining his claws as though he hadn’t just stitched up a massive wound, likely saving the King of Hell’s life, “I’ll be leaving.”
“Yeah,” Lucifer says, suddenly exhausted beyond words, “I’m fine.”
“Very well,” he says. With no further preamble, his shadow appears behind him, beginning to wrap him up in darkness.
“Alastor,” Lucifer says, turning to look at the sinner. Alastor stares back with a brow raised; an unspoken question. “Thank you.”
“No, my dear,” Alastor responds, “thank you.”
His voice echoes a bit as he slips into the shadows, leaving Lucifer alone with his thoughts.