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They argue for at least a week about what to paint on the nursery walls.
Well. Perhaps argue isn’t exactly the right word. Is there a word for the phenomenon of Lucifer attempting to run new ideas by Alastor numerous times, just for the demon to shoot it down without ever elaborating on why?
Absolutely insufferable, maybe. But that’s two words, and the first is vital, in his opinion.
Ducks get vetoed. Tragically. So do dogs—hellhounds—but that’s not actually all that surprising, and he was mostly kidding, anyway. He even says no to a music-themed mural, suggested in an attempt to appeal to one of their shared interests, but by the time Lucifer tries that he’s 99% sure Alastor doesn’t really care and is just having him on for shits and giggles.
But seriously, he wants Alastor to like what he picks. Even better, he wants him to have thoughts on what he picks. Wants to share the experience with him as much as possible.
Eventually, Lucifer has enough. When Alastor rejects a proposal for the nth time, the king levels an irritated look at the man as he lounges in an armchair, one arm draped over the side of the chair.
“Well what do you suggest then, since you’re so picky?” he snarks, maybe a little whiny (he’s almost in his second trimester, alright, he’s allowed to be whiny). Alastor arches an eyebrow at his tone, but his smirk is tugged wider across his face. Of course he would think it’s funny, the prick.
“Why, you’re the one having the baby, my dear. It’s not my place.”
Lucifer rolls his eyes. This guy. “I’m asking you, and you certainly haven’t had any problem expressing your opinions so far, so what’s the deal?”
There’s no immediate response, and Lucifer pumps his fist internally. Got him. Tucked against the side of the leather sofa in Lucifer’s en suite, Alastor silently places his bookmark between the pages of the novel he’s been reading and shuts it daintily, tapping one claw against his full lips thoughtfully. Distractingly.
“Would I be right in assuming you’d be against gratuitous violence?” he says eventually, his tone an innocent lilt, and Lucifer groans. So much for cornering him.
“I’m never asking you a sincere question ever again,” he mumbles, folding his arms over his chest. The demon tuts disapprovingly at the display.
“Oh, don’t be like that, cher.” When all he gets in return is a glare, Alastor sighs. Then, to Lucifer’s surprise, the demon’s smile shrinks to a small, close-lipped thing, and his eyes drop to the floor. He’s actually thinking about it. Frankly, the king expected him to draw out this bit till the very end. It would be very typical Alastor behavior, anyway.
So, Lucifer waits him out.
For a while. But he doesn’t actually mind.
He’s quite handsome when he’s thinking, anyway.
Finally Alastor lifts his gaze again. “What would you think about a bayou, your Majesty?”
The king’s brow furrows, wracking his memory for the meaning of that word. “That’s…like a swamp, right? From Earth? You—did you have one in your room, before we renovated…?” Other than what he’s been told or what he’s read, his knowledge of Earth biomes is pretty limited. Mostly to dense foliage, lots of verdant greens. Sunshine through the canopy of leaves.
And apple trees.
And the ground opening up to swallow him whole, yawning beneath his feet—
Best to get off that train of thought before it derails.
“Exactly right,” says Alastor, sounding almost impressed, and Lucifer gets a lovely little zip of pleasure up his spine. “I spent quite a lot of time there in life, you see. They’re dark and humid, awfully gloomy, and absolutely thriving with dangerous wildlife. Quite reclusive.”
“Sounds perfect for a recluse.” Lucifer grins when he’s given a sharp look for interrupting.
“What they are is perfect for stashing corpses you don’t want to be discovered,” Alastor retorts dryly, to a wrinkle of the nose. “Ha-ha. Anyhow, I always found them rather beautiful. All shades of blue and green, unruined by humans too afraid of snakes and coyotes to flatten the land, although some folks did live in them. You couldn’t find anyplace quite like that other than in Louisiana.” He waves a hand dismissively, “Not that I’d ever been inclined to leave, mind you.”
Lucifer hums. He can’t exactly relate to the pride Alastor has in his human hometown, but he’s amused by how it persists even a century after his death; doubly so by the way he almost slips into a different dialect. The word ‘folks’ sounds funny in the man’s performative, made-for-radio voice.
“I also died in one,” Alastor adds after a beat, as though he’s only just remembering, or as though he’s reading Lucifer’s mind. The king chokes, which makes the demon laugh at him like he hasn’t just recalled the extremely violent and humiliating way in which he’d died. He’s not sure why Alastor is proposing the site of his death for a mural after immediately turning down hounds a few days prior—maybe he has enough ‘positive’ (read: murder-related) memories to outweigh the negative—but to be fair, he’s not sure why Alastor does a lot of the things he does, so maybe it’s not worth interrogating.
“Okay, so, ignoring the fact that you used this place as a dumping ground and also were shot and killed there—what you’re saying is, you think it’s pretty?” Lucifer asks.
“Quite,” agrees Alastor.
Lucifer smiles. “Murder-swamp it is, then.”
They paint the empty nursery, which was originally a simple hotel room, the next day, doing so by magicking each layer of paint onto the wall rather than creating brushstrokes manually. After all, Lucifer may be a creative, but he’s not a painter, and besides, his sketches lack the sort of patient finesse one needs to be able to paint. Regardless, he can’t help but think it comes out gorgeous. The scene depicts a warmly-lit cabin on the murky water, surrounded by trees draped with Spanish moss, all covered by a thick layer of fog ghosting across the ground. Fireflies fit to and fro. A few other animals peek out from the treeline, mostly species Alastor suggested as they worked like snakes, coyotes, herons, and—soaking in the shallow, brackish water—a large alligator.
The king can’t stop the huge smile that crawls across his face as he steps back from the wall to fully appreciate the fruits of their labor.
“Y’know,” he starts. “I think the fireflies really pulled it togeth—mmph!”
His thoughts turn into white noise as he’s yanked swiftly into a kiss by the fabric of his shirt. After an initial moment of shock, he remembers how to kiss back, placing a hand on the demon’s chest as he reciprocates the gesture.
Alastor pulls back after a few seconds, licking his lips, and Lucifer tries not to chase his mouth too obviously. “What was that for?”
He is genuinely curious. After all, Alastor doesn’t frequently initiate physical contact outside of their private spaces, and whenever he does, it’s always slow and deliberate to allow himself to adjust. Unless, of course, they’re sparring—but they won’t be doing much of that for a few more months. Obviously. The Radio Demon will have to settle for tearing apart the common rabble of the Pride ring, if he wants to let off some steam. Or perhaps he’ll entertain the TV Demon’s antics, just to spice things up.
“No reason,” answers Alastor, unhelpful as always, but there’s a non-zero chance he’s being entirely honest. Then, “You have paint on your face, sire. Also, I will have you know they are called lightning bugs, thank you very much.”
Without another word, he warps out of the room to go God knows where, and Lucifer is left staring at their mural, feeling frazzled. Vaguely, he wonders if he’s always liked being manhandled that much.
Technically speaking, Lucifer does not need to eat food. That’s not to say he doesn’t like it; he eats plenty at staff meals, simply for the pleasure of it, the many unique sensations. But as a former seraphim, his superior biology doesn’t require him to. Not to sound holier-than-thou, but—well—he is. Was. Whatever.
Anyway, while he may not need to eat, the little monster in his stomach does, so as of testing positive he’s been eating three meals a day like the rest of the sinners at the hotel. All has been fine.
Only, it’s been a long time since he last carried a child. He’s forgotten a lot of things about the process since Charlie was born.
Like, for example, that morning sickness exists.
So that’s been a fun little surprise.
He’s been trying his best to burden Charlie and her friends as little as possible, but it’s hard not to make a fool out of himself when his body decides it’s time for a clean reset every time he smells coffee. He fucking loves coffee!
All this to say, throwing up half-digested dinner at half past six is not how he planned for this morning to go, but hey, who needs schedules? Or rest? Certainly not Lucifer.
Ugh. The fact he knows it probably would have been worse on an empty stomach does nothing to make him feel less disgusted, kneeling on the floor of his bathroom and clinging to the toilet bowl like a lifeline. His vision swims a little and he shuts his eyes, trying to take deep, cleansing breaths.
After a moment, he goes to stand up.
And immediately regrets it. Lucifer drops all over again, wheezing.
Over the sounds of his nausea he hears the familiar padding of hooves across his bedroom floor, turning into little click-clacks as they join him in the bathroom. Radio static pops and fizzles, and a jarringly warm hand rests itself tentatively on Lucifer’s back as he throws up a second time. The soothing weight stays there until he’s done, and Lucifer angles his head to the side to peer up at Alastor.
“I feel like shit,” he tells the demon, humiliated as well as teary-eyed, and his voice comes out as a barely audible croak.
“You look like it,” admits Alastor without missing a beat, charmer that he is; though, in his periphery, Lucifer sees Alastor’s shadow shut the door for his privacy. The man is already fully dressed, because of course he is, always up long before Lucifer—or any other soul, for that matter. Lucifer’s rarely treated to a version of Alastor that isn’t wide awake. When he is, though, it is something to behold; recalling the bleary-eyed, bed-headed demon calling him “darlin’” in that scratchy, unfiltered voice before he could catch himself still gives Lucifer butterflies (that, and he’ll never let the man live it down). Now, though, the very awake sinner sets down a glass of ice water and a couple of blue pills on the counter. “The princess sent me up with these. She’s very concerned about you, I believe.” A pointed look. “You gave her quite the scare, sire.”
Lucifer lets out a weak huff. He sees the real meaning behind Alastor’s words quite clearly: I’m worried about you, too. He appreciates it, knows the man struggles to express his worries without relying on coded language. But Lucifer’s a quick study and would like to think—hopes—he can decipher what Alastor really means far better than anyone else, bar, of course, Rosie.
When he’s mostly sure he won’t vomit again, the king shifts until his back is against the toilet, sinking onto the ground and exhaling. Alastor hovers, as Alastor does.
Their comfortable, relieved silence is interrupted only by the discontented rumbling of Lucifer’s stomach. He grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose with his claws.
“I’m the Devil, Al,” he complains. “Why do I have to put up with this?”
Alastor cocks his head to one side. His voice sounds more amused than Lucifer would like when he replies, “You’re asking the wrong person, cher.”
Then the Radio Demon kneels to join him on the tiled floor, glass of water and painkillers in hand. He holds the pills out in his palm for the king to take, which he does, and waits with the water until prompted, eventually bringing the glass to Lucifer’s mouth and letting him take a few sips. The cold liquid is like an ambrosia on his ragged, sore throat, and he moans gratefully.
Alastor’s smile softens fractionally at the sound. “Shall we get you back to bed, your Majesty?”
Without waiting for a retort, the demon scoops him into his arms and takes him back to his bedroom. Lucifer’s senses are overwhelmed, and all he can do is cling to the sinner until he’s deposited impossibly gently onto the soft mattress. He’s so exhausted that he can barely process what’s happening, but he at least knows that at some point, the curtains are drawn to keep the emerging sunlight from straining his eyes, and an extra comforter is fetched from the linen closet.
Truthfully, he expects Alastor to leave once he’s all settled—he’s a busy man, lots to do, things to see and souls to devour, et cetera. So he’s pleasantly surprised when the man shucks off his coat and slides onto the bed next to him. The warmth emanating from him is tantalizing; Lucifer’s eyes flick to the Radio Demon’s face, searching for permission. Once he’s gotten it, he stretches out, placing a pillow in Alastor’s lap and then draping himself across it. A few seconds pass before claws dive into his hair, scratching at his scalp. He hums, pleased, knows his hair looks fucking incredible right now thanks to all the hormones. It’s the small wins.
It’s as he’s starting to get comfortable that a thought occurs to Lucifer. Specifically, what he was getting ready to do before Husk started brewing coffee.
He jolts bodily in Alastor’s lap, sitting up ramrod straight. “Fuck. I was supposed to help Charlie review those registration forms this morning. I have to—”
A hand grips the back of his shirt and yanks him back onto the pillow before he can get up. The room spins, and he remembers why he’s up here and not down there in the first place, groaning.
Alastor’s face peers down at him. There’s a challenge in his vermillion eyes. “You’re not going anywhere.”
He tries to protest, “Charlie—”
“—is a hard-working woman perfectly capable of persevering and taking care of herself. You, on the other hand? Well.”
Lucifer glares at him, feeling horns sprouting from his forehead. “Alastor!”
“Luci.” Undeterred, the Radio Demon stares back evenly. The use of the pet name is definitely deliberate, but the king doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing it’s doing him a favor in the ‘getting Lucifer to stay in bed’ department. When Lucifer folds his arms, he trails a hand down, over the king’s stomach. “Oh, stop that look. We can’t have you overworking yourself while in this state, now can we? Think of what could happen to the precious cargo. I wouldn’t want to raise a weak heir, were I King of Hell.”
The look he gives Lucifer is another pointed one, his hand still lingering feather-light over the other man’s belly. There is a long, tense pause.
Lucifer sighs, deflates until he’s back in the demon’s lap. “Fine,” he mumbles into the pillow. “But also, Charlie is my heir, and you could literally be king if I wanted. Your ego’s just big enough as it is, asshole.”
Were Angel Dust in the room, he would make a joke about another part of Alastor that is ‘big enough as it is’. Since he isn’t, all Lucifer gets is a flick to the forehead.
The gramophone on his dresser, procured specially for Alastor, crackles to life, starts playing a slow, sultry tune as Alastor shifts just enough to grab his latest read from the bedside table. James Joyce, Lucifer thinks.
Lucifer drifts to the mingling sounds of Alastor humming and pages turning.
He would never say it to her face, but Lucifer knows there are souls staying at the Hazbin Hotel who are entirely uninterested in redemption and merely taking advantage of Charlie’s good faith and hospitality.
Although, now that he thinks about it, the first half of that description might very well apply to the father of his unborn child. But that’s besides the point, and at least Alastor is helping his daughter achieve her dreams, with no pretense that he might want to get into Heaven.
Recent events have likely only hammered more nails in that coffin, anyway.
These souls, on the other hand, only reap the benefits of Charlie’s project while fronting—unconvincingly, in Lucifer’s opinion—like they want to do better. And of course Lucifer can tell; they don’t call him the ‘father of lies’ for nothing. The specifics of their intentions aren’t clear to him, he’s not omniscient, but to the ancient and all-powerful creature existing just outside of Lucifer’s body, each of these sinners might as well be holding up a giant sign that says ‘opportunistic jackass’ in big, bold letters.
He already avoided these sorts like the plague, but he’s been taking extra measures to stay out of their way as of late. To catch the King of Hell while he’s in a vulnerable state would be a wet dream come true for some of these douchebags, and he’s not keen on giving them the chance. Originally, he’d been hiding the pregnancy from anyone who wasn’t a member of Charlie’s team, but as time went on, that got increasingly difficult. He’s well on the way to due date now. Hiding the bump isn’t really a viable option anymore.
Which is how he gets into this situation.
It’s extremely late, but for some ungodly reason there’s a sinner sitting in his spot in the common area. They’re some kind of bat demon—in hindsight, he supposes that explains why they're awake—having wings that fold under their arms and tall, pointed ears. Their snout is buried in a cell phone, so they don’t notice the way Lucifer freezes as he enters the space.
He looks around, casting forlorn glances at all the unoccupied seats the sinner could have taken. Did they really have to pick that one, the only seat Lucifer can relax in comfortably? He wishes he could just leave or sit somewhere else to do his sketching, but his worktable makes him crane his neck too much and every armchair or sofa in the hotel seems to always be too rigid, too narrow, too awkward—
Fuck, he hates this. Lucifer sighs and approaches the sinner.
“Heyyy champ,” he tries, wincing as the demon looks up at him irritably before forcing himself to press onwards, “Could I maybe convince you to switch seats? It’s just, that one’s mine usually—I mean, it doesn’t belong to me, but, you know, my back’s been killing me today and that chair, there’s just something magic about it, ha ha, and I’d really like to sit there right now.”
About halfway through his disorganized spiel, the bat sinner appears to stop listening entirely, their crimson gaze traveling down, down, down, and ugh, where else would they be looking? The way their angular face lights up when they connect the dots makes Lucifer shift uneasily.
“Holy shit,” says the sinner, laughter in their voice. “The tabloids got you good.”
The king falters. “Excuse me?”
At his bewildered tone, the bat demon finally lets a snicker escape. Their attention goes back to their phone as they search something up, talking all the while, “Like, I’m pretty sure 95% of what 666 prints is complete garbage, and I never woulda believed this in a million years, but wow. I bet the TV Demon is just jumping for fucking joy right now.”
On their screen, they pull up an article from 666 News, distributed by VoxTek. Lucifer catches the words ‘THE KING AND THE RADIO DEMON’S BIG SECRET’ and a blurry photo likely taken by one of Vox’s drones before the bat sinner pulls their phone away, laughing at the face he’s making.
“My God, that’s hilarious. Everyone knows you’re dating or whatever, but this? Sheesh,” chuckles the demon, and then they’re holding up their phone with the screen facing towards them, leering at him, and it’s not exactly hard to tell what they’re doing—
Before they can get the chance to produce more fodder for the rumor mill, violating both Lucifer and Alastor’s privacies in the process, Lucifer’s horns sprout and his tail cracks at the air like a whip before yanking the phone from them. The bat sinner yelps at the burn, clasping the offending hand. “What the fuck, man?”
“Do you want to find out what it’s like to die a second time, sinner?” Lucifer sneers, all notions of awkwardness and social anxiety thrown heartily out the window. His tail drops the phone, and Lucifer crushes it under his shoe. The demon makes a noise of dismay.
“Hey, look, your Majesty—”
They’re interrupted by an abrupt squeal of microphone feedback. Lucifer feels vaguely relieved, even though he probably shouldn’t.
“Threatening the residents now, sire?” Alastor’s voice sounds from the entryway, clearly attracted by the commotion. When he speaks again, he’s warped to Lucifer’s side and is looking down at him with visible interest. “My, my, how your temper runs hot. Tell me, my dear, what did this wasteful soul do to deserve your ire?”
The demon starts, “I didn’t do anything—”
“Shut your mouth,” says Alastor cheerfully, without removing his gaze from the king. “if you would like to live. Go on, your Majesty, I’m listening.”
“Your buddy Vox has been running his mouth again,” Lucifer tells Alastor, his tail swishing in the air. His eyes flick back to the bat demon, who is at least clever enough not to try and make a break for it, seemingly pinned under his gaze like an insignificant insect. “Our friend here wanted some pictures.”
“Oh? Is that so?” That apparently is enough to get Alastor’s attention to shift onto the sinner, now properly terrified. His demeanor remains ever-chipper as he spins his cane idly and says, “That man does so like to gossip, doesn’t he? I suppose even a broken clock is right once a day. As for the photographs, well, they say pictures last forever, but I am of the mind that memories are much more powerful. So, my nocturnal friend—”
And he morphs into his demonic form, bones creaking and antlers growing and shadows expanding, voice multiplying, “—shall I give you an unforgettable experience? My broadcast could always use a new guest, you know.”
The bat sinner cowers. “No, Alastor—”
“‘My lord’,” corrects Alastor, grinning manically.
Their face scrunches in further humiliation. “No, my lord.”
A beat of silence. Then Alastor sighs, disappointed.
“Hmm, fine then,” he says, returning to his usual form and inspecting his claws. “I suppose finding the walls of her establishment painted with the innards of one of her esteemed guests would send Princess Charlie into a tizzy. However, let this be a lesson to you.”
He leans in, leering down on the bat demon. “Should I come to find out that you disrespected your king ever again, I will personally tie your limbs into a bow and hang you on my mantle for your impudence. Yes?”
Oh. Lucifer swallows. That was kind of hot, actually.
“Understood,” squeaks the sinner, shrinking under Alastor’s intense scrutiny.
“Then get out of my goddamn chair,” growls Lucifer. “and leave.”
Without another word, they scamper away, presumably to their room. Lucifer finally collapses into his beloved safety chair, legs and back both crying out in relief. He takes a moment to catch his breath before finally noticing Alastor’s eyes haven’t left him. His heart stutters in his chest.
“I had that under control,” is all he says, summoning his sketchbook and watching as Alastor steps by him to conjure a fire in the fireplace. The blaze is so hot that it instantly warms Lucifer’s tired bones.
Alastor looks over his shoulder at him, and the look in his eyes holds Lucifer in a vice grip.
“I know that,” replies the Radio Demon, simply, “but why should you get to have all the fun?”
Out of concern for his comfort, Lucifer makes it clear early on that Alastor doesn’t have to stay in the room the whole time, but it seems the man is committed to doing so. In fact, the king realizes retrospectively, maybe all Lucifer’s attempt to reassure him did was reinforce his need to be contrary. He stands dutifully by the bed for a full 16 hours, which seems excessive, but hey—he insisted, and Lucifer certainly wasn’t going to complain about the company.
It’s—a lot more painful than Lucifer remembers. Both magic and ordinary medicine help well enough, but neither are enough to quell the pain entirely. Lucifer’s voice is good and gone around halfway through. Charlie visits periodically to ask if he needs anything else, which is sweet of her, but she never stays for long. He can’t blame her.
Ozzie and his little imp friend stop by to help get him into the homestretch. It’s a little funny, but by the time they leave, Lucifer thinks the Sin and Alastor might actually respect each other.
Once it’s almost over, it’s just him and Alastor in the king’s bedroom, late into the evening. Though Lucifer is positive he’s as sweaty and gross as he’s ever been, the demon keeps his claws carding through blond locks. That he knows the gesture is at odds with Alastor’s comfort, but he’s doing it anyway makes him weepy, and he sobs into his pillow, gasping as his body seizes up from another agonizing contraction.
“No, none of that,” Alastor shushes him gently—or as gentle as he can be. The grainy filter over the sinner’s voice is oddly soothing. “Keep going.”
“Hurts,” wheezes Lucifer, and he’s vaguely aware that he’s probably crushing Alastor’s free hand in his inhuman grip because he winces minutely.
“You’ve survived worse.” That hand brushes Lucifer’s hair back from his forehead, and he moans. “I know. You mustn't stop now, though, sire. The King of Hell, toppled by a newborn? What will the papers say?”
It’s a not so subtle attempt to get him to relax, and it works. Lucifer huffs a tearful laugh, steels himself, and pushes.
Then it’s over, and Lucifer is so rubbed raw from stimulation and full to bursting with joy that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. In another example of Alastor doing things Lucifer never thought he’d do, the Radio Demon cradles a wriggling, fussing form at the end of the bed, his expression unreadable.
“Al?” Lucifer sits up, rubbing his damp eyes. “Hey, c’mere.”
Without saying a word, the sinner obeys, bringing the bundle in his arms to Lucifer, and the sight knocks what’s left of Lucifer’s air from his lungs.
His intuition was right. He kept it to himself for the duration of the pregnancy just in case he was wrong and they did end up having a girl instead, but. He was right the whole time.
Lucifer trails a hand down deep skin accented by splotchy red cheeks, runs his fingers across arms and legs, noting where the skin, interestingly, turns to glittering red scales at the joints. He pets wispy dark curls, a round nose, and lilac-tinted eyelids all with a wondrous expression on his face.
The careful, gentle touch prompts the tiny creature to open its eyes, previously screwed up in distress, and Lucifer gasps. Red scleras and irises, much like Alastor’s, only with slitted pupils.
“Oh,” Lucifer whispers, sniffling wetly. “You’re perfect.”
Alastor is quiet. When the king looks up, he’s still wearing that unplaceable expression, his smile close-lipped and his brow furrowed. The demon allows Lucifer to lean against him so they can both look down at the baby.
“You’re awfully quiet,” mutters Lucifer, craning his neck to meet those eyes. “Everything okay?”
Alastor takes a moment to respond, though his gaze flickers briefly to Lucifer’s and then away. A clawed hand sweeps up the length of the king’s back.
“You know, cher,” he says eventually, his voice strained in a way Lucifer has never heard before. “I do believe we were right on the money with ‘Clyde’.”
The next couple of days are a downright whirlwind, and Lucifer’s sure it’ll be that way for quite a while. Although, he can’t quite bring himself to be too upset about that.
Everyone is ecstatic about the newest resident of the Hazbin Hotel. It warms his heart, Charlie especially. She’s so enamored with Clyde that the baby has to be taken away from her. The others are similarly excited, though they keep a better lid on it. Angel gushes and coos alongside Charlie, and Lucifer’s treated to a rare sight in the form of an honest-to-God smile from Husker. Vaggie is the most stoic in her reaction, but no less warm in her congratulations. Nifty has to be told to stop poking and prodding at the newborn, but that’s typical enough.
As he gets himself ready for bed two nights after the delivery, Lucifer can barely keep himself upright. When he inspects himself in the bathroom mirror, he knows he looks a mess, with bags under his eyes and his hair in total disarray. But who can blame him?
As he changes into his pajamas, he runs a hand over his belly, now much less prominent, and he thinks about Lilith. He’s been doing a lot of that recently, given that the only prior experience he’d had with giving birth was during his marriage.
What will happen if and when she comes back, if and when she discovers this? It’s a thought that’s haunted his thoughts late at night ever since he tested positive. Lucifer has never stopped caring about her, but he can’t pretend like he hasn’t moved on. Doesn’t want to pretend like he hasn’t moved on.
He has no idea, and that uncertainty—it threatens to pull him under, pull him into a dark and unforgiving, lonely place.
When Lucifer heads to the nursery, Alastor is already there. Lucifer pauses in the darkened doorway, taken aback by what he sees.
The fearsome Radio Demon sits on a stool in front of the recently-conjured crib, gently rocking the baby inside. And, to Lucifer’s utter amazement, he’s singing. A soft and dreamlike tune with French lyrics.
He’s never heard Alastor sing before, unless you’d count humming under his breath. It’s—lovely. Clearly Clyde thinks so too; other than a couple fussy noises, the crib is completely silent.
“Parlez-moi d’amour, redites-moi des choses tendres,” croons the sinner, static crackling in his voice. “Votre beau discours, mon cœur n'est pas las de l'entendre—pourvu que toujours vous répétiez ces mots suprêmes: je vous aime.”
In the doorway, Lucifer shifts just a little too much, and the sound attracts Alastor’s attention. His voice dies, and the two stare at each other in silence. The king’s heart feels as though it could beat out of his chest.
“Ah, look who it is, little one,” Alastor says eventually, dry as ever. But the way his cheeks darken at being caught out is obvious even in the low light. “The King of Hell, an eavesdropper. This behavior is hardly becoming, my dear. Can you believe this, Clyde? My, m—”
Lucifer shuts him up with a kiss, that dark and unforgiving, lonely place forgotten.