Work Text:
I move in all directions
I don't need any protection
And this beast is interjecting
And this soul can't help but connect it
It’s not often that Alastor miscalculates. But here, in the safety and security of his own mind, he can admit it to himself: he’s fucked.
His freshly healed wound smarts as he presses on it, the cloth of his shirt irritating the new skin. He presses harder, relishing the torso-wide ache. It almost feels like a bad sunburn, sensitive to the touch but otherwise ignorable. It would have taken him weeks to heal from, demonic energy fighting an uphill battle against the holy energy seeping into his blood. He might not have healed from it at all.
The thought curls his lips. The last time he’d allowed such a misstep, he’d ended up with a bullet in his head.
Settling his hands in his lap, he glances at Lucifer. The King of Hell snuffles in his sleep, utterly insensate to the world around him. A frown mars his features, and Alastor’s snarl softens into a grin. Funny how not even the King himself can find peace in his dreams.
Alastor’s stare lingers on Lucifer’s shoulders, his hands, noting where white skin darkens and ends in black fingertips. He’d thought them gloves originally, but no – there was nothing to protect someone from his wickedly sharp claws or the heat of the Hellfire winding just beneath the surface. So unassuming, so easily dismissed, so artful in its subterfuge. Alastor can’t help but be mildly impressed – Lucifer had chosen the perfect vessel to be underestimated, past prowess easily forgotten in the wake of his small, lithe body.
A body that looks infinitely smaller swaddled in bandages and confined to a bed. Stripped of arrogance and bravado, Lucifer looks dangerously, temptingly vulnerable. Alastor licks his lips, all too aware of the pinpricks of gold peeping through some of the bandages. Angel and Vaggie had done a wonderful job stitching and wrapping Lucifer’s wounds and setting his wings, but the damage was too deep. There’d been nothing they could do except wait and, in Charlie’s case, hope that Lucifer would pull through on his own.
Alastor sighs. So much power in such an unassuming, broken body.
If he were a gambling man, he’d roll the dice and sink his teeth into white flesh now, gorge himself silly and hope that whatever power Lucifer can still call upon is weak enough to be negligible. But gambling isn’t his vice, especially when the consequences are so permanent.
Even this hurt, I can take you down without blinking. Lucifer’s voice echoes in his mind, and Alastor frowns as best he can. Trembling, bleeding, nearly maimed, and still Lucifer had been able to heal him. Still, he’d been able to blow embers into a proper flame – Alastor had seen it, had felt the heat emanate from him, had stilled and frozen like fucking prey at the sight of Lucifer, aglow with power, advancing on him when he was barely able to stand, let alone defend himself.
Alastor snarls, static growing loud for a moment before settling. His shadow, barely visible in the soft light filtering through the window, curls above Lucifer’s headboard and echoes his snarl. He’s hit with the odd impulse to kick Lucifer, or shove him out the window, or bury him beneath the floorboards. Anything to get the fallen angel out of his sight. Anything to remind Lucifer that he’s a force to be reckoned with.
He takes a deep breath, running his fingers along his staff. Cleaved in half, he’d kept it hidden away, too obvious a mirror for his own wound. Lucifer hadn’t touched it, hadn’t even thought to ask about it, but here it was, whole and hale in his lap as if it had never been wrecked in the first place. He feeds a bit of demonic energy into it, checking for any internal damage, but the static emitting from the microphone is as healthy as ever.
Alastor flicks his ears, listening intently. There, hidden in the undercurrent of the static, is an extra layer of something – more static, perhaps, or something else. It thickens the sound, morphing even the resting notes from tinny to something slightly deeper.
Alastor growls under his breath, keeping half an eye on Lucifer as he raises and lowers the volume of his static. It doesn’t seem to make a difference – the added depth still there. Though glaringly obvious to him, he’s almost comforted by the fact that no one will notice it. He allows the static to fade into the background and stares hard at Lucifer.
Lucifer, whose pomposity knows no bounds. Lucifer, who had only entered the fight at the last possible second. Lucifer, who had screamed.
Alastor’s grin nearly splits his face. Much of the battle is fuzzy, but he remembers that scream. Remembers how it had set the hairs on the back of his neck rising, had made his heart beat faster, adrenaline coursing through him. The thud of Lucifer’s body hitting the ground had been nearly drowned out by Charlie’s scream, but he remembers the vibrations of it.
If only he’d been able to get a sound recording of it. It would be such a nice track to have on his show.
He’s so lost in his reverie that he nearly misses Charlie’s tentative knock. She opens the door before he can say anything, glancing at him in greeting before going to her father’s side.
“How is he?” she asks, pressing a hand to Lucifer’s forehead.
Alastor ignores her question. “That was a short nap, Princess,” he says, cocking his head to the side.
She shrugs, frowning. “I couldn’t settle down. Vaggie fell asleep pretty quickly, though,” she says, looking at him. “He’s not as warm as he was a couple of hours ago. What happened?”
“Why, nothing at all! We had a lovely chat.”
Then, something wholly unexpected – Charlie’s eyes widen and flicker red as she leans over her father. “You said you wouldn’t fight with him,” she hisses.
He blinks. “I didn’t.”
“Like I’m going to believe that,” she says. “You’ve been at each other’s throats since the moment you met.”
Alastor waves his hand in the air as if shooing away a fly. “Would I lie to you, Princess?”
“Yes, you would.” She narrows her eyes, taking a deep breath, nostrils flaring. “He healed you. That’s why his temperature isn’t up,” she says. “You know how injured he is! Why would you let him do that?”
The static around them deepens, nearing the edge of too loud as Alastor’s pupils become dials. “I didn’t let him do anything. After his most recent display, you and I both know that he does what he wants.”
She falters, the indignation leaving her in a rush. He allows his shadows to linger for a few moments before pulling himself back, the static settling into something almost soothing.
“I’m – I’m sorry. You’re right,” she whispers, looking at her father. “He’s stubborn.”
“No harm, Princess,” he says as he stands. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have people to see, people to threaten, people to eat.” He’s got an appointment with Rosie to keep, after all, and he needs to make sure any tapes of himself during the fight are corrupted enough to be unusable. He’s fairly certain he smashed all of the pesky drones, but things got blurry after Adam.
“Wait,” she says, reaching out to touch him before thinking better of it. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
He presses his lips together. “I’m fine.”
“Which is exactly what you said while you were actively bleeding out.”
Alastor widens his grin even as he grimaces with his eyes. It hadn’t been his finest moment – collapsed in a corner, snarling at anyone who got near, blood pouring from his chest like a stuck pig. He’s lucky, he supposes, that Charlie had been the one to find him like that, rather than Angel or Husk. Charlie, at least, would keep her mouth shut.
“Fit as a fiddle, Princess,” he says, patting his chest. “Even so depleted, your father carries quite the punch.”
“Yeah,” she says, perching on the edge of the bed and clasping her father’s hand. “He does.” She quiets, contemplative, and Alastor ought to leave before she veers into any bonding conversation, but instinct compels him to stay.
With a sigh, he sits back down into the chair, brushing imaginary dirt from his shoulder. His shadow once again moves to hover near Lucifer’s headboard, matching his slight grin. He watches silently as Charlie brushes the hair from Lucifer’s forehead, checking his temperature again as she does so. Then she hovers over his wings.
In flight, Lucifer’s wings had seemed untouchable, like something from a dream. But Alastor had seen first-hand that they could break – had held the protruding bones together while Vaggie had furiously fused them together, desperately pulling on the last vestiges of Divinity within herself to speed up the healing. He’d buried his fingers into the soft feathers, seeking out cuts and bruises. He’d watched gold blood seep into white and red feathers and found himself unwilling to sneak a taste.
Now, Lucifer’s wings are dull and faded in the soft light. Bald spots, crooked feathers, and dried blood only serve to make Lucifer more pathetic looking. The bottom two pairs of wings had disappeared somewhere between transferring Lucifer from the battlefield to his bed, despite being scratched and bruised. Without them, he looks impossibly smaller.
“Is it better or worse,” Alastor asks idly, “that the two wings he injured are a pair?”
Charlie’s face crumples. “I don’t – I don’t know,” she whispers. “I’ve never seen them hurt.” Her fingertips brush the wing closest to her, and Alastor watches as Lucifer, even in sleep, flinches away from the touch.
Charlie sucks in a breath, wringing her hands in her lap. “He’s never liked anyone touching them,” she says, voice thick. “When I was really small, I tried to help him groom them once, but he’d flinch every time I touched them.”
Alastor mentally adds wings to the list of Lucifer’s weak spots. “They seem to be quite sensitive. No wonder Michael went after them.”
Charlie’s face pales, eyes widening as tears threaten. “Yeah.”
The sound of her scream carrying over the battlefield – Daddy! – still rings distantly in his ears. She’d fought him hard, had scratched and clawed and burned his tentacles until he’d very nearly been forced to let her go. She’d taken chunks out of him, but he’d held on tight, subduing her for all he was worth.
Even now, in the stillness, three days separate from the battle, he can’t quite remember exactly what happened. Everything after Adam hitting him in the chest is an agonizing, rage-filled blur, the instinctive lashing out of an animal half-dead and cornered.
He supposes he owes Charlie, on some level, for throwing a dead Exorcist his way and making sure no one saw him as he devoured the body. It hadn’t fully healed him, but the angelic blood had managed to get him back to rights just enough for him to be useful.
More than anything, though, he remembers Lucifer – remembers the thundering crack of Lucifer’s wing bone breaking; the sight of him hurtling towards the ground like a shot bird; the image of Lucifer kneeling, pale throat bared and vulnerable, Michael’s hand gripping his hair.
Above all the clattering noise, he remembers the pure, terrifying shock of seeing Lucifer bleeding, broken, and prideless.
Somewhere in the fray, Angel echoing all of their thoughts: “He can get hurt?”
Then, like the sun burning through fog, there’d been light. Harsh, blinding, and furious.
Then, there’d been eyes. Multitudinous, fiery, never-blinking.
Then, finally, there’d been Lucifer. Magnificent, otherworldly, divine.
A predator of the likes Alastor had never seen, teeth and talons bared. Wings flared as if he was impervious to pain. Golden blood dripping from him like the worst kind of temptation, and Alastor’s nose burns at the memory of it – something like fresh air, the kind he hasn’t smelled in decades.
Power, raw and wild, pours from Lucifer in a gust of blurry, stifling heat. The force of it staggers him, makes sweat run down his back for the first time since landing in Hell. Nearby, Vaggie sways, hands gripping her angelic spear hard to hold up under the pressure of the heatwave. Even Charlie, hair blowing in the wind, wilts, red eyes wide and teary.
“Daddy?” she whispers, one hand over her mouth.
Lucifer doesn’t seem to hear her. He lunges at Michael, glowing and flame-wreathed, so much more than Alastor had thought.
It’s exceedingly rare, this feeling, this need to hunker down low to the ground, to be small and still and silent. To be prey. Alastor has only felt it a handful of times, nearly all of them when he was a child. But here, now, watching Lucifer explode into a cavalcade of heat and light and eyes, he feels the instinctive urge to hide.
To think that this being, this monster, had allowed him to poke and prod, had allowed him to get under his skin. He’d known, in a distant sort of way, that Lucifer could erase him from existence with barely a thought. But he’d been so distracted by the hat, the brashness, the absolute incompetence the king had exuded – it’d been easy and instinctive to wind him up and watch him go.
“Do – do you –,” Charlie’s stuttering voice shatters his reverie, and he blinks, forcing himself back to the present. He looks at her, noting the bags under her eyes, the trembling of her fingers, the tangle of her hair. Something in him almost aches at the sight, but he pushes the feeling down.
She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “Do you think Michael would’ve killed him?”
That image again in his mind: Lucifer bloody and kneeling and helpless. The more monstrous part of himself curls around his ribcage, half hunger, half fury. He hums. “Your father made it clear to me that he was nearly maimed rather than killed. Seemed quite adamant, in fact.”
Charlie snorts, rubbing a hand across her face and opening her eyes. “He would get caught up in the details.” She sighs, curling in on herself until her elbows rest on her knees, hands cradling her head. A fine tremor races through her, and Alastor can almost taste the exhaustion wafting from her.
“Do you think he would’ve lived?” she asks. “If Michael had beheaded him. That move, with the knife at his skull.” Charlie mimes stabbing an invisible foe before shuddering again, clenching her hands into fists. “That was – I mean, it was – someone doesn’t just. You can’t just walk that off, right?” She looks at him then, yellow eyes wide and raw, looking so dreadfully pathetic that Alastor almost feels moved.
He's got half a mind to bite back against the genuine plea, the of course he would have, you darling little fool, at the tip of his tongue, but he tempers himself. He’s only alive by the good grace of Charlie. Whether or not that will be enough to shield him once Lucifer finds out about their deal, he doesn’t know, but her soft spot for him buys him time – the one thing he always seems to be running afoul of.
He forces himself to soften. “If anyone could walk something like that off, it would be your father,” he says, leaning over the bed to set a hand on her shoulder.
Charlie stills beneath his hand, blinking at him. The tension leaks from her, breath hitching, and for a moment he’s afraid she’s going to launch herself at him for a hug. Then, her face shifts – something in her gaze darkening enough to raise an alarm bell in his head. He tightens his grip, smile widening.
“You’re lying,” she says, voice low. “If you really believed that, you wouldn’t have held me back during the battle.”
“Now Charlie –”
“No, Alastor,” she says. “You held me back. He could have died – my father, who I only just got back, could have died.” Her voice cracks, even as her eyes remain dry. “Why would you do that?”
He leans back, tapping his fingers along his microphone. Charlie’s always been prone to big emotions, unable to feel anything halfway, but the whiplash is beginning to make his head hurt. Still, it’s fascinating to watch. The hardness of her stare, the stillness of her mien – such precious glimpses of the fledgling predator lurking behind all her sweetness and naïveté.
Alastor toys with the idea of letting the silence drag out until Charlie is forced to order his acquiescence. He wonders, idly, what she would do if he reminded her of why he’s in Hell. But the thought peters off as quickly as it appeared.
Charlie likes you, for whatever damn reason. Lucifer’s voice whispers through his head again, and Alastor scoffs internally. Damn him, damn her, damn it all. But he does need her, in a way he so rarely needs anyone.
At the end of the day, she’s the only one who would step between him and Lucifer.
He sighs. “You wouldn’t have made a difference,” he says, leaning back in the chair. “You are a distraction to your father on the battlefield.”
“Excuse me?” she hisses, sclera flickering red.
He tuts. “You are his biggest, most glaring weakness, Charlie. He worries over you to the point of distraction. He flew into a falling building to rescue you. He got his throat slashed because he couldn’t see you.”
She flinches, finally breaking eye contact with him. “Why are you telling me this? Why are you being so mean?”
“Because,” he says, voice hard, static rising, “if you try to live up to his power, you will die. He is a fallen archangel and will always be more powerful than you. He was struggling against Michael – do you really think you would have fared any better?”
“I could have –”
“What?” he interrupts, “what could you have done?”
“Something, anything!”
At Charlie’s shout, Lucifer flinches, gasping awake. “Ch-Charlie?” he asks, eyes wide and hazy. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing! Nothing’s wrong,” Charlie soothes, hands on Lucifer’s shoulders.
Lucifer takes a deep breath, wincing as he does so. “You were yelling,” Lucifer says, settling into the pillows behind him. It takes everything in Alastor not to freeze when Lucifer’s eyes land on him. There’s no Divinity or Hellfire brewing in them, no thrum of power whipping through the air. It doesn’t matter – Alastor knows better than to trust the docility in those eyes.
Lucifer squints at him. “What did you say to her?”
“Nothing of import, I assure you, Your Royal Shortness,” Alastor says, unable to help himself.
“Oh fuck off, damned deer,” Lucifer says, dismissing him with an eye roll. Alastor glowers as Lucifer turns to Charlie. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
She nods. “I’m getting there, Dad. It’s good to see you awake again.”
“Yeah,” he says absently, glancing around the room, brows furrowing. “It’s only been a couple of hours, Char-Char – I thought you were taking a nap?”
“Oh!” She laughs, scratching the back of her neck. “Well, I was going to, but then my mind kept spinning and spinning and I couldn’t get it to stop, so I came to check on you.”
Lucifer’s holding his arms open before she’s finished speaking. “Nap time! Come here, sweetheart.”
“Dad, your chest,” she says, staring at the bandages.
He waves her concern away. “Trust me, my chest is fine.” At her continued hesitation, he holds out his pinkie finger. “I’ll tell you if you hurt me. Pinkie promise.”
Alastor lifts a brow but says nothing. He shouldn’t be surprised, he supposes, that the King of Hell would be childish enough to still be offering something as flimsy as a pinkie promise. The deal, small and weak as it is, gives off a little plume of golden smoke when Charlie hooks her pinkie to Lucifer’s.
“Promise,” Charlie says, curling up next to Lucifer and gingerly putting her head on his chest.
Lucifer’s fingers immediately start running through Charlie’s hair. Always moving, always twitching, always swaying – has Lucifer ever managed to truly sit still? Alastor’s brows furrow, remembering carrying Lucifer away from the battlefield, his tentacles supporting him. Remembers the agony-filled tension of his body and wings when Alastor held him down so Vaggie and Angel could reset his wing.
Alastor’s held enough dying people to know what dead weight feels like. He knows how it feels to have blood soak into his clothes and run over his hands; knows what someone’s last breath feels like when he’s got them held to his chest, strangling them from behind; knows how to shift his weight to compensate for the gradual laxness of someone’s body.
He forces his hands not to flex at the memory of Lucifer thrashing in his grip, the scream he’d let out dwarfed only by the sound of bones realigning. The grey pallor of his skin, the immediate dead weight of him in Alastor’s arms.
Alastor had nearly shaken him – an unmoving Lucifer is dangerous, one way or another. The wrongness of it had made the hair on the back of his neck rise.
After Lucifer had passed out, after he’d had to once again hold Charlie back from the corpse-like figure of her father, after Vaggie had reassured everyone that Lucifer would live – there’d been work to do. Alastor’s own gaping wound, barely healed enough to stop him from bleeding out, fell to the wayside. With Charlie out of commission and Vaggie refusing to leave her or Lucifer’s sides, leadership had fallen to him.
Through a haze of pain and adrenaline, he vaguely remembers tasking Niffty with finding Fat Nuggets; vaguely remembers ordering Husk and Angel to secure the perimeter; vaguely remembers standing next to Rosie as she corralled her cannibals, gathering Exorcist bodies as they went.
A soft tune draws Alastor from his thoughts. He shifts, putting his ankle on his knee as he rests his cheek on his fist. Lucifer hums a simple tune meant only to comfort, gazing warmly down at a sleeping Charlie. After a few minutes, Alastor pairs Lucifer’s hum with a tune of his own, microphone crackling warmly.
Lucifer’s gaze flicks to his, frowning slightly. Alastor grins.
“You’re still here,” Lucifer says quietly, looking at Charlie again.
Alastor shrugs. “I haven’t been formally dismissed.”
“Like that would stop you,” Lucifer mutters. “Why are you here, Alastor?”
Alastor hums. If he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t know. Staying on Charlie’s good side is one thing, but standing guard over Lucifer is something else altogether. His fingers twitch. He hasn’t been able to force himself away from this room for more than a handful of minutes, skin prickling at the thought of having Lucifer out of his sight for too long. Eventually, he’ll have to puzzle out the why behind his urges, and he dreads the thought of soul-searching.
He'd rather be shot again.
“I’m merely keeping a lookout, Sire. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing to get your feathers crossed about.”
Lucifer peers at him, yellow eyes sharp despite the exhaustion. The silence stretches for a bit before he finally sighs. “You know, I almost believe you. Keep your secrets, Bambi. As long as Charlie isn’t caught in the crossfire, I don’t give a damn.”
Alastor grins. “Oh, don’t worry, Your Majesty, I don’t plan on harming a single hair on her precious little head.”
“Good,” Lucifer says, not bothering to look at him. “See to it you don’t.”
Alastor laughs at the underlying threat. “Or what? You’ll throw a rubber duck at me?”
And there, there – that glimmer of a predator in Lucifer’s gaze, the way the air seems to crackle with power for a moment before dispersing, scratching over Alastor’s skin.
“Have you already forgotten who I am, or do you need another demonstration? Because, again, I can smite you without a thought,” Lucifer hisses, glaring.
Alastor grins harder. “Do I detect a bit of insecurity, Sire? You’re awfully intent on reminding everyone what a big bad angel you are.”
Lucifer blushes gold with rage, and the sight of it makes Alastor’s mouth water. He should’ve taken a bite when he’d had the chance.
Next time, perhaps.
Lucifer straightens as if preparing to verbally lay into Alastor, puffing up like a peacock, when he pales, eyes widening as he all but collapses back into the pillows. A pained grimace flits across his face, and he bites his bottom lip hard enough to pull blood. The sight and smell of it – crisp and fresh, like a long-forgotten Fall day – makes Alastor’s teeth ache.
“Careful, Majesty,” Alastor says, making no move to assist. “Wouldn’t want to wake Charlie, would we?”
Lucifer takes a deep, deliberate breath, moving as little as possible. Charlie sighs in tandem, mouth open as she drools.
“I’m fine,” Lucifer says, forcing himself to relax. Carefully, he begins to run his fingers through Charlie’s hair again. “Michael took a lot out of me, is all.”
“Oh, yes, Divinity will do that to a fellow,” Alastor says with a hum.
The glare Lucifer levels at him is tempered with pain. A shiver runs through him, teeth clacking for a moment, and Alastor again remembers the battle, remembers those teeth sinking through armor and into flesh.
Such small, dainty teeth, for such a small, dainty man. So different from Alastor’s own fangs, large and ever on display. The genius of Lucifer’s disguise nearly bowls him over again. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, indeed.
“Yeah, well,” Lucifer says, shrugging slightly. “Michael needed to be dealt with quickly and decisively.”
“So, getting beat up by him was part of the plan?”
“What, like you planned for Adam to take you down with one hit?”
Alastor bares his teeth, static sharpening. “A miscalculation, nothing more.”
“One that almost cost you your life.”
“Careful, Sire, it almost sounds like you care about me.”
“I don’t,” Lucifer says, scoffing. “But Charlie does. I’ll tolerate you for her sake, but don’t push me.”
Alastor opens his mouth – really, he’s worth more than mere toleration – but Lucifer cuts him off.
“Get out,” he says, nodding towards the door. “I’m too tired to deal with you.”
Alastor’s eye twitches, wide grin freezing for a moment. “Well, if you insist,” he says, standing and tugging his lapels into place. He grabs his mic and sidesteps the foot of the bed. “Woe is me to go against a direct order from my King.”
“Fuck off Bambi. Go be creepy somewhere else,” Lucifer says.
“Very well, Your Majesty,” Alastor says as he exits the tiny room, quietly closing the door behind him.
He hears Lucifer’s scoff even through the door and grins. He’s got half a mind to leave the fallen angel without protection but thinks better of it at the last moment. The last thing he wants to deal with is an injured Charlie and a frantic Lucifer – the reverse has already been trying enough.
He walks down the open-air hallway, keeping an eye out for a tiny ball of energy. Given the state of the hotel and their temporary lodgings, he wouldn’t be surprised if Niffty has worked herself into a tizzy, the task of cleaning such a mess unfairly overwhelming. It’s why he’d sent her after Fat Nuggets – with one task completed, she’d easily be able to run with the momentum.
It doesn’t take long to find her. Their shelter consists of three large storage sheds hastily shoved together with the last of Alastor’s energy, furnished and cleaned up as needed by Husk, Angel, and Niffty. They’d built a connected, covered walkway at one point, quietly enough not to disturb Lucifer of Charlie.
Even after three days, he only knows where everyone’s rooms are because the walls are so thin. He’d spent his recovery time in Lucifer’s room, halfway to keep watch, and halfway because he couldn’t bear the agony of movement.
And, perhaps, partly because he’d wanted to know the moment Lucifer awoke. Wanted to make sure the predator he’d glimpsed in the smog-filled sky hadn’t set his sights on Alastor himself.
“Speak of the devil,” he mutters with a grin, spying Niffty across the stretch of dirt that consisted of their front yard. She runs towards him, Fat Nuggets held triumphantly above her head.
“I found him, Sir!” she says, hopping up and down once she reaches him. “He was near the kitchen with the roaches. But don’t worry, I killed the roaches.”
Alastor pats her head. “Good work, Niffty. Now, once you return Mr. Nuggets to Angel, I need you to guard His Majesty’s room. I have an appointment to keep.”
Her eye goes wide and she grins. “I get to stab again?”
He nods. “Stab anyone who gets too close that isn’t myself, Angel, Husk, Charlie, Vaggie, or His Majesty.” He pauses, considering. “Cherri is allowed, too, so long as she has no bombs on her person.”
Niffty snickers. “Stabby, stabby,” she whispers, still hopping in place. She focuses on him. “I won’t let you down, Sir!”
“I know you won’t,” he says, watching as she darts down the way to Angel’s door and nearly breaks it down.
He allows an arrogant swing in his step as he makes his way towards Cannibal Town, short circuiting cameras as he goes. Demons startle when they see him, crossing the road to avoid his path, and he grins harder. Even the picture boxes, when he passes them, don’t dare show any footage of him – rather, it shows Michael and Lucifer shining so bright they nearly blind the camera.
A calming jazz tune emits softly from his microphone, playing in tandem with the everyday screams and shouts of Hell. He’d say, in the words of Charlie, that it’s very nearly a happy day in Hell. Even three days on, everyone is grateful to have made it through another Exorcism, getting high on adrenaline and partying in celebration rather than because of routine.
Rosie’s Emporium is as busy as ever, but the sharp-edged, hungry pall that usually plagues the cannibals has lifted, leaving the atmosphere jollier than he’s ever seen it.
“Alastor, there you are!” Rosie calls, popping up from behind a display of finger lollipops. “I’d wondered where you’d gotten to. Come in, sit, sit,” she says, already gesturing to an out of the way table in the corner.
Alastor grins. “Rosie, my dear, you look stunning,” he says, placing her hand in his elbow.
Rosie waves a hand at him. “Aww, such a gentleman. It’s all that Exorcist blood, you know. Letting loose helps too – it’s been so long since I’ve really been able to sink my teeth into someone,” she says, punctuating the sentence with a snap of her teeth.
He laughs, pulling her chair out for her. “Quite the event for your darling cannibals, I’m sure.”
“Oh, absolutely!” she says as she sits. “This is the best thing that’s happened in five-hundred years. Not even Susan has made a fuss the past few days.”
Alastor’s brows raise as he takes his seat. “Really? Now that’s something I never expected. Hell must be freezing over.”
She laughs, leaning forward. “It might be for the best, dear. Some cold weather might be just the thing to get rid of all that city smell.”
Alastor wrinkles his nose. “Indeed. Unfortunately, I highly doubt our esteemed king will ever deign to have winter mar his…” he trails off, gesturing out the window. “…whatever this is.”
Rosie shoots him a look. “Now, now, don’t be speaking bad of the king here. We owe him, after all. We’d have all been dead a few times over because of Michael if he hadn’t shown up.”
Alastor sighs, opening his mouth before closing it. A lady’s maid appears at the table, setting down a steaming pot of tea along with a few roasted fingers and a vial of golden blood.
“Thank you, Judith,” Alastor says, filling Rosie’s cup before his own.
Rosie smiles, bringing the cup to her lips, steam wafting. “Always a gentleman.”
Alastor grins. “I learned my manners from the best,” he says, sniffing. “Darjeeling?”
“With a dash of angel blood, if you’ve got a hankering,” she says, gesturing to the small vial. She squints at him, concern bleeding into the edges of her grin. “You weren’t doing so well last I saw you, Alastor. It’s not right to make a woman worry, you know.”
He takes the vial, opens it, and brings it to his nose. The scent is heady, like all angel blood is, but it sits heavy on his tongue, muddier than Lucifer’s. Still, it would be rude to turn away such a precious gift, so he tips a few drops into his cup before pocketing the vial.
“Apologies, my dear,” he says, bringing the cup to his lips. The light taste is all metallic peaches with a hint of something hot and sharp – tangy, almost – courtesy of the blood. His chest warms, shoulders relaxing slightly.
Rosie’s eyes sparkle. “There you go, Alastor. Nothing some blood can’t fix. That’s some of the higher-quality stuff, but if you need something stronger, I know just who to call.”
Alastor shakes his head. “That won’t be needed, but thank you for the offer. I’m perfectly fine, truly.”
Rosie shoots him a look, lowering her voice. “Listen, chuckaboo, last time I saw you, you were barely standing up.” Something must flash across his face, because she waves a hand at him. “Only obvious to me, don’t worry. I just want to make sure you’re in tip-top shape.”
Alastor rests his hand on top of hers. “I’m alright,” he says, squeezing once before leaning back.
She clasps her hands together, her grin rivaling his own. “Good, good! I’d hate to have to find a new pal, you know. I don’t know if I could ever go through all that trouble again.” She squints at him. “Now, tell me everything.”
He shrugs, taking another sip of tea. “Not much to tell, I’m afraid. Adam got in a lucky shot, and the next thing I know His Royal Shortness is healing me.”
Her eyebrows raise. “How is His Majesty? That was quite the show he put on. You’ve been locked up in that little shed, but the whole Ring had been all aflutter since the battle, talking about His Majesty.”
“I’m assuming footage of him has eclipsed everything else?”
“Oh, yes,” Rosie says with a sly look. “In fact, according to my network, any footage before Michael showed up is too damaged to look at! I guess Vox’s little datacenter got hit during the battle.”
Something in his chest uncurls. “How fortuitous for us.”
She nods. “All anyone can talk about it His Majesty. The first time in over a decade he’s stepped out of that castle of his, only to take on another archangel? It’ll be the talk of the town for weeks, I tell you.”
“Not the first time,” Alastor says, tongue getting away from him.
“Oh?”
He hums, tapping his fingers along his microphone. “He came to the hotel a few weeks ago to talk with Charlie. We had a chat.”
Rosie snickers. “A chat? Is that what they’re calling it now? Oh, never mind. Is he as ruthless as they say he is?”
He looks out the window, staring at nothing. “There’s something about him,” Alastor says, static crackling. “I think he could be quite bloodthirsty, if he ever let himself be.”
Rosie nods, nibbling on a roasted finger. “He would have drummed up a lot more terror if he’d killed Michael. More respect, too.”
Alastor raises a brow at her, grinning when she copies him. “Is this sedition I’m hearing? I’m shocked that a lady of your station would be so daring.”
She snorts, laughing. “Not sedition, dear, just conversation!”
“And what is the word on the street regarding our tiny king?”
“As of right now, everyone is in an appropriate amount of awe. Even the Vees aren’t saying anything too daring, though even they know better than to go up against the king right after he’s banished Adam and Michael.”
“Between us two chums, the king didn’t kill Adam. The killing blow came from a resident at the hotel.”
Rosie rears back slightly, mouth agape. “No!” she gasps. “It was Vaggie, wasn’t it? That little warrior, such a nice girl. I can see her killing someone, especially if the Princess was on the line.”
Alastor shakes his head. “It will have to remain a mystery, I’m afraid. If no one knows who killed Adam, it’s less likely they’ll attack any of the original hotel crew.”
“Oh, Alastor,” Rosie says, flicking her hand at him. “Look at you caring for them. There’s, what, five of them now? That’s an awful leap from you and yourself.”
Alastor’s eye twitches. “Nonsense. As their hotelier, it’s quite literally my job to make sure they don’t die.” Not that he’d succeeded, given Sir Pentious, but the snake was merely a guest, not a part of the original crew, and hardly counted.
“Mmm-hmm. Face it, sweet cheeks, they’re growing on you.” Her grin softens, head tilting slightly to one side. “It’s good, you know, to have some connections. Nothing bad about that at all.”
He fights the urge to growl at her. His static gives him away, though, rising in volume for a moment before he can concentrate enough to turn it down. “They’re pawns in a larger game, is all. I need them to trust me.”
Rosie shoots him a knowing look. “Of course, of course. Anything to do with that seven-year absence?”
His blood turns cold, and it’s all he can do not to swallow at the phantom collar around his neck. He stands, taking Rosie’s hand in his and kissing her knuckles. “It’s been a pleasure, dear, but I really must be going. I have a rebuilding effort to oversee, after all.”
“So soon?” Rosie asks, rising with him. “Well, you can’t blame me too much, dear, I’m curious by nature. Good luck out there, and stay in touch, you hear me? I don’t want another no-contact absence.”
He forces an easy grin. “Of course,” he says, striding away from the Emporium with a purpose.
The moment he steps outside, the invisible noose around his throat loosens just enough for him to breathe. His chest and abdomen ache, freshly knit muscles protesting the sudden retreat. He sets off in the direction of the fallen hotel, smile plastered on his face, instinctively frying any camera that turns his way.
His thoughts trail back to Lucifer. That damned fallen angel. If he had a fraction of Lucifer’s power, he’d be unstoppable. No one would be able to collar him, no one would be able to get the better of him, no one would be able to defeat him with a single blow. He’d destroy anyone who even thought of doing so. With Lucifer’s power, he’d be able to maintain and expand his territory, would be able to do away with Vox and his damned groupies.
The thought of Vox’s downfall sharpens his smile, and he’s vaguely aware of a demon screaming and running away from him.
If only he were able to continue collecting others’ souls. Shackled as he is, there’s no use in fighting against that particular stagnation. The only loophole he’d been able to find was dealing in favors rather than souls. Still binding, still powerful, but not nearly to the extent he’s used to.
Alastor whistles a tune, playing something soft and jaunty from his microphone, anything to drown out the feeling of the ever-present noose tightening. Breaking the Deal outright would smite him, but having someone else break it – having someone like the King of Hell break it? That might be the solution to his problem.
By the time he reaches the edges of the hotel property, he feels positively giddy, warmth spreading all throughout his body. Finally, finally, he might have a real chance at freedom again.
There’s no doubt in his mind that Lucifer is a predator – an apex one, even. But even predators can be felled.
Alastor bares his teeth, static crackling, radio dials flashing in his eyes.
It’s been a long, long time since he’s had such a challenge.