Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Preparation.

That is the backbone to every successful hunt.

There’s an undeniable thrill to the physical aspect of it, of course—the slice of a knife through flesh, the warm, sticky red stains on his hands and face, the tangy taste of copper on his tongue. His favorite part was when they stopped struggling. When fear finally ran its course and their threats became wet, desperate pleas.

There were impromptu killings too. The ones that happened when he got a little too buzzed, when he came across a situation that set his teeth a little too on edge, and all he had to work with were his bare hands or whatever blunt object was within arms-reach.

Those, while fun in the moment, were the messiest. Getting rid of the body, checking for witnesses, cleaning up just enough gore to have time to flee the scene without suspicion, disposing of his soiled clothes, covering his tracks, all while tipsy--it was just… ugh . The headache he woke up to in the morning wasn’t just the aftermath of spending an evening at his favorite hooch joint.

But preparing for the hunt, well, that was a level of ecstasy all on its own.

Nothing beat the weeks, months on some occasions, it took to stalk, hunt, and kill his prey. He prided himself in the careful consideration he took when singling out his next target from the roaming herds of New Orleans denizens. Learning their habits. Memorizing the streets they took home from work. Making a list of their favorite bars and clubs. The people who’ll notice first when they go missing.

Planning the night where it would all come together in one perfectly executed…well, execution.

And it was perfect. Every time. He made sure of it. He was careful. 

He was smart.

Just…not smart enough to leave his heifer-heels at home.

It’s been a while since Alastor felt it necessary to prepare to the extent he had when he was alive. The last time he did was during Maudit Gras , which is what he’d dubbed that period of time when he’d slaughtered his way through the—then, much larger—pool of Overlords.

But his current dilemma is just unpredictable enough to warrant a bit of prep.

Nothing quite like the intricate schemes he carried out in his hometown, but a checklist should do the trick. Short and simple.

Step 1: Talk to Charlie.

Which works out because Charlie is always up bright and early, writing up a list of tasks that need done or touching up whatever lesson plan she’d concocted for the victims of her dreams. Oh, her and her little hotel, really, he does find it a smidge endearing.

Is it naïve? Certainly.

Misguided? Without a doubt.

Doomed to crash and burn? He’s expecting it.

But there’s something to be said for her determination. He admires those with a stubborn streak. Like calling to like, you could say. It shows that they won’t be moved. That, when they dig their heels into the dirt and say “No!” they mean it.

The care she puts into her hotel is an admirable quality, one she’s already putting to use when he finds her in the kitchen taking stock of all the food in the fridges, freezers, and pantries, making a grocery list of items they need. She gives him a quick smile when he enters, sweetening it with a chirpy “Good morning,” but only looks up from her clipboard again when he tells her to rally the rest of the hotel’s occupants when they wake up. He and her father have something to discuss with them.

“Oh?” She blinks, eyes wide with surprise. “You…and dad? About what?”

“That is what we’ll be discussing as soon as everyone wakes up, now won’t we?” he says, twisting his arm grotesquely to pat her head as the rest of his body turns to the door. Her mouth opens and a finger pops in the air as a precursor to her follow-up questions, but Alastor leaves before she gets them out. 

There will be plenty of those later.

He watches the rest of the hotel’s inhabitants trickle awake throughout the next hour, either observing them from the second-floor balcony or sticking close to the walls where shadows still linger. It’s not as discreet as melding with the darkness, but even the thought of trying to do so has his hallowed wound rearing out of his chest to wag a chastising finger at him. Ten minutes later, and he’s still massaging the edges of the wound–not daring to touch its center mass–to coax away the prickling burn.

Charlie catches her associates one by one and directs them to the lounge with a bright smile and a pep in her step. They do not share her affinity for mornings, and scatter among the couches and chairs in varying states of lethargy. The news that Alastor and Lucifer have an announcement keeps them in their seats, and even rouses a few into sitting straighter when they spot him lurking along the edges of the room.

He pretends it doesn’t irritate him.

When Lucifer makes it downstairs, hair disheveled and still in his pajamas, he looks just as confused about their “big news” as the rest.

“Our what?” He asks, rubbing his baggy eyes.

Alastor raises an eyebrow, knits his fingers behind his back, and waits for him to connect the dots.

Lucifer’s eyes widen a moment later and he grimaces. “Oh. That.”

“Yes, that.” Alastor agrees, directing him away from the couch with his cane when he tries to sit, and stations him in front of their gathered colleagues. Public speaking doesn’t seem to be a strong suit of his, so he doesn’t expect Lucifer to be much help in explaining their arrangement, but the least he can do is stand quietly and nod his head.

“Alright, what’s this about?” Vaggie asks with a yawn, half-tipped into Charlie’s side, who, in contrast, is wide-eyed, smiling, and staring at Alastor and Lucifer attentively with her hands clasped on her knees.

“Yeah, what’s so important that we can’t get coffee first?” Angel Dust grouses, slumped over the couch's armrest and half-heartedly scrolling on his phone.

Step 2: Explain the situation.

Alastor addresses Charlie first. He has to win her over to ensure Lucifer will commit to the plan. That man hangs onto every word she says, fretting around the edge of her personal bubble like a mother hen trying to find its way back inside the coop.

“Well,” Alastor says, “after a long discussion last night, your father and I,” he gestures to Lucifer, “have come up with a solution that will both protect the hotel and all the new guests lining up at your door.”

“Oh!” Charlie perks up, looking equally delighted and surprised. 

Everyone straightens in their seats, in fact. Angel Dust shares a confused glance with Husk, who’s leaning on the back of the couch, and Husk shrugs. He does a good job looking bored, but Alastor catches the barely-there rise of his normally curled wings. The only tell of his curiosity. Niffty bounces between them, clapping her hands excitedly.

“Yep,” Lucifer says, popping the ‘p.’ “It seems we do. Indeed.” He gives Alastor a sidelong  look. “Sooo…you wanna tell ‘em?”

Despite anticipating this, Alastor hums, unimpressed. “I expected I’d be doing most of the work, but that was quick, even for you.”

“ You’ll be doing most of the work?”

Alastor ignores him by moving closer to the group. “So, as you are all now aware of my current,” he flaps his hand like its frivolous, “situation--”

Niffty jumps up and down and waves her arm wildly, as if to get his attention. “Oh! Oh! You mean the big glowy thing on your chest that won’t go away?”

Alastor closes his hand. “Yes. That. Thank you, Niffty.”

She beams, hopping onto the table and plopping herself on the edge, kicking her feet. “You’re welcome.” 

“Now,” he straightens, tucking his cane in the crook of his arm to clap his hands together, “unfortunately, it’s taking longer to heal than expected. The elements of this injury are…peculiar, and the only way to speed up the healing process is with your dear father’s magic,” he tips his head to the side in gesture to Lucifer, who hasn’t moved from his spot.

Good. Stay put.

Charlie’s smile dims at the mention of his injury, and now that she knows its location ( thank you, Niffty ), her eyes jump to his chest, as if to dig through his shirt and see it for herself. The energy pulses slightly, as if sensing her wandering gaze.

“Oh, none of that ,” Alastor admonishes, waving off her concern like she’s being silly. Because she is. “Really, this is nothing I can’t handle, Charlie.”

Lucifer scoffs.

“As your hotelier,” Alastor continues, as if not hearing him, “I figured it best that I be in tip-top shape for our new residents, so your father has agreed to help speed the process along.”

Vaggie, who’s leaning against the armrest with her cheek squished in her hand, raises an eyebrow. “Is that it? That’s what you wanted to tell us?”

Step 3: Explain the plan.

“Patience, Vagatha–”

“That’s not my name! Why do you guys keep calling me that?”

“--I’m getting there. Now, as you know, with our esteemed ruler out and about again, he’ll be drawing the public eye. Not only does he represent the hierarchical system in Hell, he also represents you,” he points his microphone at Charlie, and then gestures widely to the rest of the room, “and this hotel. He’ll need to consider how he conducts himself. It wouldn’t do him, or us, any good if he makes a fool of himself. Since he’s been gone so long, I have—”

“For fuck’s sake,” Lucifer knocks him aside. “We’re going to pretend we’re dating.”

The consensus of the reveal is a loud and resounding “WHAT?”

All except for Niffty, who giggles. Ever a constant ball of energy, she’d relocated to the ground, crouched behind the table, with only the top of her eye visible. She drums her fingers along the edge and says with sinister delight, “I knew it.”

“I was getting there,” Alastor mutters from the corner of his mouth.

“Well, you were taking the scenic route, and I was getting bored,” Lucifer grumbles back.

“Impatience is a very unattractive quality.”

“Your everything is an unattractive quality.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Husk says, pushing himself up from the back of the couch, waving his hands. “What does that have to do with your,” he waves vaguely at Alastor’s chest, "whole deal? This doesn’t make a lick of sense, even for you.”

Lucifer shrugs, absentmindedly scratching his head. “My reputation will keep people off his back while he figures his shit out, and it’s an excuse to keep him close by during public events while I get, uh, reacquainted with everything. Oh,” he snaps his fingers, “yeah, he’s gonna teach me politics, too, I guess. Cuz, you know, I’ve been gone so long,” he waves his hands in a silly, joking manner, like the whole ordeal is absurd.

Well, if that’s how he feels, Alastor should just drop him in the middle of the city, kick back, and watch him suffer. Either Lucifer will bluster his way through every conversation, fumble through a crowd of reporters and cameramen, or he’ll assert his reputation as the King of Hell and alienate every Sinner within a two-block radius. He’ll get a proverbial kick in the ass, and Alastor will get enough entertainment to last him a week. Maybe two.

Hmm…not a bad idea, actually. Will be tucking that one away for later. 

“Besides,” Alastor cuts in, stepping in front of Lucifer. “This way, there’s a less likely chance anyone will give the hotel trouble. The rumors are already going around, so we may as well use them to our advantage. It’s all about strategy, dear.” He taps the middle of Charlie’s forehead with a finger. 

“Oh, that’s…really smart, actually,” Charlie says, slowly lighting up as she soaks in their haphazard spiel. Her smile softens, eyes glistening as she clasps her hands over her chest. “And that’s really considerate of you to help my dad, Alastor. Really. Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lucifer butts in, shoving himself between Alastor and Charlie with an annoyed huff. “Super smart. Good job.”

“Ah ha, thank you. You’re too kind.” Alastor laughs, giving Lucifer a hearty slap on the back. “Anything for the betterment of Charlie’s hotel.” 

“I…guess that makes sense,” Vaggie mumbles, rubbing her chin. “Sort of. It’s still hard to wrap my head around you two dating.”

“Oh, yeah,” Charlie’s eyes cant to the side, her enthusiasm fading as she rubs the back of her neck with a tittering laugh. “Haha, yeah… that is…something, alright.”

Lucifer stiffens and Alastor sees the very moment his attention fixates on her completely, like the scope of a camera zooming in. He reaches for her. Then falls back. Reaches again. Falls back again, wringing his fingers. “That’s-that’s not going to be weird for you or anything is it? Because we don’t have to if it’ll bother you,” he rushes to reassure her. “It’s no biggie at all. Really, we can—”

“No, no , it’s fine,” Charlie waves him off with a forced nonchalance that’s almost as painful as Lucifer’s fussing. “No, it’ll just, uh…take some getting used to is all. I mean, we all already thought you two were… you know …”

“Getting down and dirty?” Angel Dust smirks.

“Shacking up?” Vaggie offers.

“Having raw, dirty, passionate se—”

Alastor bonks Niffty on the head. “Enough of that.” 

To the others he says. “Yes, you already thought it once, so it shouldn’t be too hard to think it again. Just keep in mind that this is a ruse. There’s nothing happening behind the scenes.”

Husk leans his crossed arms over the top of the couch, his earlier disbelief replaced with a droll,“Do you even know how to date?”

Alastor rolls his eyes, dismissing the question with a flippant gesture. “Please, Husker, what’s there to know?”

“Have you ever ev’n dated anyone?" Angel asks. He thinks for a moment. Adds, "Or been on a date, for that matter? Do ya remember how to date?" 

The unexpected twinge in Alastor’s chest almost makes him stumble. A pain unrelated to the glowing one in his skin, but the energy flares up anyway, putting a strain between his lungs. He briefly flashes to a warm, congenial bar. Soft, padded sheets. A flash of excitement. A coil of uncertainty. His jaw clenches. His grip on his microphone tightens. He lets out a quiet breath. His hand softens again. He turns around with an indifferent smile.

“That is a personal matter,” he says, leaning casually against his cane. “And one you don’t need to know.” 

“Really?” Lucifer cocks a doubtful hip. “And who in their right mind would date you?”

“The same kind of person who thought it a good idea to marry you,” Alastor shoots back, saw-toothed.

He doesn’t often indulge in the myriad of narcotics that lurk in the city, but he might have a drug problem anyway, because Lucifer’s anger is quickly becoming addictive. So quick to hit. So potent. The golden-brown flush that colors his face is more entertaining than any doomed-to-fail soul Charlie could hope to fix.

He watches, drinking it greedily as Lucifer’s shoulders rise, like a bull preparing to charge. The way his leather gloves creak under the strain of his grip on his cane is music to his Alastors ears. What would it take to get him to snap that silly thing in half? Dark delight curls in his stomach when Lucifer’s eyes flash red, bright as hot coals, like he’d picked up on his musings through the split-second glance he’d given his apple cane.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Vaggie says, coming between them with her arms extended. She glares at Alastor. “That was uncalled for.”

Alastor shrugs, making a little hmph while picking at his nails.

Charlie hums, examining them with pinched eyes as she tap-tap-taps her two index fingers against her chin. “Okay, so…” she starts slowly. “I am sensing a lot of tension between you two, and I don’t think it’s the kind of tension you’re going for.”

“To translate, if you wanna pretend you're dating, you’re gonna hafta look like you actually wanna date,” Angel Dust says, leaning against the armrest with his head in his upper hands. He points between them. “You don’t look like ya wanna do anything with each other.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Alastor asks innocently.

“What we mean,” Vaggie says, rubbing her forehead, “is that you two look like the farthest thing from a couple. You look like you can’t stand being in the same room.”

Well, if the shoe fits, Alastor muses. But it’s not like they can’t whip themselves into shape in front of a crowd. Well, he can. He’s not so sure about Lucifer, which is the reason he offered his political services in the first place. 

Equal exchange. 

Lucifer smacks his lips in consideration. “Valid point,” he concedes. “I don’t enjoy being in the same room as him.”

“Well, looks like you’re gonna have to fix that,” Husk says, propping his cheek in his hand, tail barely visible from behind the couch as it swishes against the carpet in amusement. Alastor squints, scrutinizing him from the tops of his ears, to the faint crooked set of his bowtie. Husk is enjoying this way too much. 

He doesn’t like it.

“Seconded,” Angel says, lifting a hand. “No one’s gonna fall for a cheap act like this.”

“Thirded,” Charlie reluctantly agrees.

“Four-ded - fourthed- fourded - I agree,” Vaggie says. “No one is going to believe for a second that this is genuine.”

“What? Isn’t banter common in these types of relationships?” Alastor drawls, lounging in his favored armchair next to the fireplace. “I think it adds a bit of flavor, don’t you?”

“Not when it sounds like you despise each other,” Vaggie emphasizes in exasperation. “I swear, there’s not enough self-help books in Hell that can fix,” she gestures between them like she’s not even sure what to call it, “this.”

Charlie gasps, mouth falling open as she grabs Vaggie’s shoulders and shakes her excitably. “Oh! Oh! Vaggie! That’s it!”

“Babe- babe,” Vaggie grabs Charlie’s hands and pulls them away, looking dizzy. “What? What’s it?”

“Vaggie, we can show them how to date,” Charlie exclaims,  pulling Vaggie’s hands to her chest and holding them like she’s trying to transmit her glee through skin-contact. “We’ve been dating for a while now, and we know what we’re doing.” She lets go to pace in front of the table, gesticulating wildly, “I mean, sure, we’ve had our ups and downs, but who hasn’t? And it only made us closer in the end, so I think we’re still doing a pretty good job. Every couple goes through their rough spots, and they-woof, they are going through a rough spot. But if we just push them in the right direction, we can totally show them the ropes!”

“I don’t know, Charlie. They’re kind of,” Vaggie glances at Alastor and Lucifer. Whatever she sees makes her grimace. “I don’t think there’s a lesson plan in existence that could whip these two into shape.”

Charlie gasps again, eyes and mouth somehow larger than before. “That’s it!” She says, pointing a victorious finger in the air. “I’ll make a lesson plan! I’m sure I’ve got some paper upstairs, and I just stocked up on note cards. We’ve got that old canvas in storage, if we move the couch a little, it’ll fit right here. Hmm…all my old markers were in the old hotel…but a regular pen should be fine…maybe if we get some visual aids…”

“Annnd we’re losing her,” Vaggie says, watching Charlie descend into rapid-fire mumbling, back to pacing around the table with her chin in her fingers.

Lucifer shuffles a few steps closer, then reconsiders, and returns to his spot. “Charlie,” he laughs nervously. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Alastor and I…I think we can figure it out by ourselves.”

But Charlie is past listening. She’s practically dancing around the table now, excitement coming off her like a stench and Alastor refrains from fanning the air to clear it out. He opens his mouth to put in his two cents, but Charlie squeals in delight and rushes out of the lounge before he can utter a word.

“This is going to be so much fun!” She says, already halfway up the stairs. “We’ll have a class, and we can do some practice skits, and-and- come on, Vaggie, we’ve got to get ready.” She frantically motions for her to follow before disappearing from sight.

Vaggie sighs, plodding after her, but any exasperation with her girlfriend’s antics is far outweighed by the soft, affectionate smile tugging on her lips.

“There’s no stopping her, is there?” Lucifer asks, staring up at the balcony where Charlie disappeared.

They collectively shake their heads.

Wonderful.

That didn’t go according to plan. Alastor tears up his mental checklist and throws the pieces into the air. So much for a successful hunt.

He wasn’t even tipsy this time.

If Lucifer hadn’t interrupted me, he bitterly grumbles.

In and out. Brief and to-the-point. Ten minutes tops. He could be out on the terrace by now, reading the paper and enjoying his morning coffee. But no. Now he’s going to have to fend off Charlie’s particularly passionate brand of tomfoolery for the rest of the day.

Fantastic.

“Right. Well, I’ll be up in my room.” He spins around, twirling his cane. “Call me for dinner.”

“Whoa, nuh-uh, get back here,” Lucifer grabs the tail end of his coat and tugs him back. The air around Alastor spikes, static popping in the air like a drop in atmospheric pressure, and he yanks his coat out of Lucifer’s grip with a hiss. Lucifer doesn’t bat an eye. “This whole thing was your idea, pal. Charlie’s fine with it, so I’ll go along with it too, but if it’ll make her happy if we do…whatever this class is, then we’re doing it.”

He steps back, wiping his hands down the front of his shirt as if Alastor’s coat had left a residue. “Besides,” he adds, short and stilted, “maybe we could use a little help.”

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Alastor says, rolling his eyes. Any harder and they’ll slide right out of their sockets. “This isn’t rocket science.”

“They got a point, boss,” Husk says, a touch more careful than Lucifer. “If you’re gonna do this, it can’t hurt to get to know each other first.”

Alastor heaves a weary sigh. Really, it’s laughable how difficult they’re painting this to be. It’s just romance. No, it’s not even that, it’s fake romance . It’s all pretend. A lie just like the dozens of others he's made, albeit of a different variety.

In case they forgot, he’s the fucking Radio Demon. This will hardly be the most difficult thing he’s ever done. Sure, he hasn’t necessarily been on a…

Well, it’s been a while since he…

And he’s never really been in a…not…not really…

Regardless, it’s not that complicated. So long as he and Lucifer are amicable in public, the rumors will do the rest. Given Lucifer’s status and how long he’s been out of the game, Alastor thought he’d want their “relationship” to be on the downlow. Afterall, he’s still trying to repair his relationship with Charlie (very poorly, Alastor might add), so why would he want to flaunt his love-life on top of that? 

It’s smarter to keep our cards close to the chest. Exposing our hand so openly is how we lose the pot, and in a game like this, we… I can’t afford that. 

The rise of his magic is subtle and instinctive, and it latches onto his frustration. The holy energy pulses, sending an uncomfortable itch through his chest to ward it off. For a moment, he lets both crawl through his skin, twining themselves together in a prickly, woven mesh that’s as comfortable as a quilt of barbed wire. Only when it’s just shy of unbearable does he take a subtle breath and encourage both to settle.

When it comes to Charlie, it’s easier to play along with her nonsensical games. She’s a determined woman, and when she sets her mind on something, however outlandish, Alastor is, admittedly, a little impressed with the lengths she’ll go to get it. 

Indulging in her requests has gotten him this far, anyway.

Besides, how long can one class take, anyway? Twenty minutes? An hour at most?

He sighs again, putting on an airy indifference. “Fine. But if it’s over five lessons, I’m leaving. No relationship, however fake, is worth that much trouble.”

“Wow,” Lucifer drawls. “Aren’t you a saint.”

Alastor smirks over his shoulder. “Hmmm, isn’t that your job? Oh,” he covers his mouth apologetically, “sorry. Wasn’t that your job?”

“Oh, fuck you!” Lucifer snaps. The air gets warmer, stoked by the fire of his rage, and a faint odor of brimstone and smoke burns Alastor’s nose. 

Delicious. Utterly delicious.

“No, thank you,” he chirps. “I’m afraid that’s not in our agreement.”

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” Angel whispers, wiggling into a more comfortable position on the couch. Husk has the sense not to reply.

“Be a dear and call me down when Charlie returns,” he says with a short wave over his shoulder.

“I’m not walking all the way up there just to get your scrawny ass,” Lucifer shoots back, closer than before, like he’d followed Alastor a few steps toward the stairs.

Alastor shifts his ears subtly to the side, listening for muffled footsteps and rustling clothes. When he’s sure the only thing following him is the harsh, seething breaths stuck between Lucifer’s teeth, he snaps his fingers and his shadow peels away from the heels of his shoes.

“Send it up to get me, then.”

He feels the weight of his shadow’s displeasure on his back. A faint press of unhappiness between his shoulder blades that echoes in the connection tethering them together. But his shadow deflates a moment later and slinks across the floor to lean against the shadow of the grandfather clock. It crosses its arms and gives the rest of the room a dull, miserable look.

“Join the club,” Lucifer grumbles at it and that’s the last thing Alastor hears as he climbs the final step and disappears down the hall.

Chapter Text

It takes Alastor a frustratingly long time to get to his room. 

Even longer than it did searching for Lucifer’s last night. 

Without his shadow to guide the way, he wanders aimlessly, constantly doubling back, looking for familiar landmarks, and peering down corridor after corridor, searching for his distinct red-oak door. 

It takes fifteen minutes before he finally stumbles across it, with help from the thin, barely noticeable scratches he puts in the wallpaper; to remind himself of which turns he’s already taken and which hallways he’s already seen. Alastor’s never considered himself schmaltzy by nature, but when he yanks the door open and escapes the labyrinthine hallways, the immediate change from red papered walls to dark wooden panels makes him a tad weepy.

The smell of shoe polish and rotting meat pacifies his irritation, but his heart still aches for the gentle, balmy wind of his bayou and the scent of marshy waters and algae it carried. He has yet to figure out how to reintegrate it into his new room in a way that won’t end with him unconscious on the ground, but each day he goes without it his yearning grows. 

Sighing, he tosses his coat on the bed and collapses into one of the two padded armchairs by the fireplace. 

 “Finally.”

If he’s forced to bumble his way through the hotel one more time, he’s tethering a rope-ladder outside his window and using that to get to the ground floor. And if that doesn’t work, he’ll scale the wall. It’s bad enough blindly navigating this hellforsaken place, if the others find out and try to escort him, he’s burning down the building and taking a real sabbatical, orders be damned.

His hotel was so much better. 

Sure it was smaller and more rugged—and not really his , per se, as it belonged to the royal family. And, sure, he never spared the dilapidated, two-story mess of a building a second thought until he joined Charlie in her heavenly crusade, but he was the one who got it running. 

Mostly. 

He tidied it up. Fixed the plumbing. Stopped the roof from leaking. The kitchen was usable, and thanks to Niffty, the rooms were clean enough to sleep in, barring a few bugs. The stripping wallpaper had been eye-catching in its own way, and the bar he installed was a much needed palate cleanser from the overdone circus theme.

It was homey. Lived in.

A quality this new hotel lacks with its cookie-cutter halls, gold-lined trimmings, and crystal baubled lamps. It’s too ornate. All bells and whistles, more concerned with playing up the grandeur than keeping it comfortably functional.

He waves his hand to summon the last of his stored venison, but stops midway, eyes shooting to his chest. Heart thumping, he waits for the stabbing pain that’s sure to follow, but his glowing infection merely throbs. He gives it a few seconds to reconsider and then slowly relaxes.

The damn thing is so temperamental it’s getting hard to tell what’ll set it off. His magic is an automatic trigger, he’d learned that quickly enough, but there are times when it reacts to things completely unrelated, like his emotions. Or his thoughts. It was as if it plugged itself into his nervous system and now monitored every aspect of his being; mind, body, and soul. All Alastor can do about it is tug, and tug, and tug, hoping, eventually, the wires will come loose. 

Hope, he thinks in disgust. What a wynorrific delusion.

Groaning, he slumps further down the armchair, spreading his legs to avoid hitting the ottoman, and scrubs his hands down his face. If he’d known prior to the Extermination that defending the hotel would cut him off at the knees, he would’ve set up a nice lawn chair down the hill and watched the battle from afar. From that distance, he could still maintain the shield, call upon his minions, and control the tendrils of dark matter he summoned, with the added bonus of tea and a few of the sugared fingers he pilfered from Rosie’s office.

His stomach grumbles.

Right.

Breakfast was on his to-do list, below laying out his dating ploy and above enjoying his morning coffee on the terrace. Seeing how well the first task went, he’s not surprised the last two didn’t pan out either. This hotel, and everyone inside, have such a way of derailing even the most basic, thought-out plans. 

A lesser demon would find it annoying, but even now, despite how disastrous it went downstairs, Alastor can’t help but smile, amused. If nothing else, at least he’ll never be without entertainment. Witnessing their constant stream of disasters is the most fun he’s had since…well, since before his return. 

What’s life without spontaneity? He muses. Riots are his playground. Mayhem his favorite game. When chaos comes to play, that’s when it really gets interesting.. 

But getting lost for the dozenth time in a week? 

That he can do without.

There’s no way he’s subjecting himself to those awful hallways just for cold coffee and whatever leftovers are in the fridge, especially after escaping them so soon. He drags himself up to find the emergency reserves he keeps stashed in his room. Typically, he wouldn’t dip into them unless it was wholly necessary, but as long as he doesn’t eat it all, it’ll still do in a pinch.

But, of course, just as he’s opening a carefully wrapped slab of liver from the drawer by his bookshelf, the stretched tether between him and his shadow slackens, growing looser and looser as it traverses the halls. Breathing harshly through his nose, Alastor cuts off a chunk of liver, pops it in his mouth, and re-wraps the rest in thick white butcher paper. He’s just sliding the drawer closed when it slithers through the crack under the door, stopping directly in front of him with its arms folded, still wearing a glower. 

“Oh, hush,” Alastor says, stepping inside the bathroom to wash his hands, smooth down his hair, and make himself presentable. “You barely had to do anything.” 

Once satisfied, he stoops down to seize his cane, where it’s propped against the ottoman, and grabs his coat off the bed.

His shadow’s scowl deepens, but still follows him out of the room when he finishes buttoning his coat. Good. It’s not too pissy then. Just pouting. 

They wander aimlessly for a few minutes before his shadow slides into view, gives him an unimpressed look, and jabs a thumb in the opposite direction. Alastor twists around and begrudgingly follows it to the first floor.

“You sure took your time,” Lucifer says, the first to notice him descending the stairs. He’s slumped against the cushioned armrest of the couch, cheek propped in his hand and already looking bored. He’s dressed now, in his preferred white and pink vest, but the puffy white pants he usually wears is replaced by a pair of slim black slacks. 

Husk and Angel Dust had taken the couch next to him, with Angel Dust sneakily angling his phone to take a picture with Husk, and Husk not-so-sneakily evading his every attempt. Niffty is on the ground, half submerged under the coffee table, giggling. Judging by a faint crunching and the sharp clink of her favorite sewing needle, she’d found a bug to take apart.

At least one of them will be having fun.

“I took the scenic route,” Alastor replies, sitting in the armchair farthest from Lucifer. They didn’t have to be close to each other for this, did they? He hopes not. For someone as short as he is, Lucifer has a way of taking up a lot of space.

“Is everyone here?” Charlie asks, adjusting the large wooden canvas that’d been set up in front of the lounge, its white paper face turned in their direction. Alastor tilts his head, reading the title with narrowed eyes:

Chaggie’s 101 Crash Course - A Dating Guide For Dummies

He has a feeling that last bit is Vaggie’s handy work. 

The words are written in a large, loopy handwriting that stretches so far across the page that the last few letters are squished together.

“Chaggie?” Angel Dust reads aloud, also squinting at the title page.

“It’s our names put together,” Charlie preens. “Isn’t it cute?”

Vaggie puffs her chest. “I thought of it.” 

Angel Dust shrugs. “Eh, could use some work.” 

Vaggie deflates.

“Well, I love it,” Charlie says, sweeping her girlfriend up in a hug that nearly lifts her off her feet. 

“Well, aren’t we already off to a remarkable start,” Alastor applauds, laying his cane across his lap. “And how many lessons have you prepared for us, Charlie, dear.”

“Well, there’s a lot of stuff we want to cover, but we boiled it down to si—”

Alastor rises to his feet.

“Five,” Husk says, shooting Charlie a look. “There’s only five. Just like you wanted, boss.”

“Uh, right…yeah,” Charlie looks between them and slowly grabs a pen off the table. “That is exactly what we have. Just five. Here, I just gotta...check on something real quick.” She turns the canvas around and flips through the first few pages, stopping a second later to scribble fiercely with the pen.

Alastor sits down with a sigh. 

The dark smile he gives Husk is more discreet. 

Husk appears unbothered, but Alastor’s known him for a long time and catches the split-second twitch of his tail as he averts his eyes. Well, it’s good to know that despite his crippled state, his threats are still taken seriously.

But, in all honesty, he’s not that upset that his escape attempt didn’t work. The chances of Charlie letting him slip away were small to begin with, and even if he succeeded, he’d have to fend her off for the rest of the day. As of right now, he severely lacks the mental fortitude it would take to do so.

Still, it was worth a shot and Husk would do well to mind his own business.

“Okay,” Charlie repositions the canvas, so it’s facing them again. She stands to the side of it, holding a long, yellow pointing stick. “Welcome, everybody, to me and Vaggie’s dating crash course! It’s a little, eeeeh, slapped together,” she admits, “but it’ll be super fun. I promise.”

Lucifer fidgets in his seat. “So, is it just us?” He asks, gesturing between himself and Alastor, before awkwardly jabbing a thumb toward Angel Dust and Husk. “Or are they just here to watch?” 

“Actually, I was going to ask if they, you,” she corrects, addressing Angel Dust and Husk, “would do the class with us. I figured it’d be more comfortable for dad and Alastor if everyone was participating. Do you guys mind?”

Angel Dust bolts up, nearly dropping his phone. “Us?” He looks at Husk. Back at Charlie. Back at Husk. “Me and him?”

“Uh...how? Exactly?” Husk asks, wings rustling in the way they do whenever Alastor gives him an unexpected errand to run.“What is it you’re want’n us to do? Cause I’m not playin’ out some weird domestic fantasy for these guys.”

“You won’t have to. You’re just pretending to be a couple,” Vaggie reassures him, standing on the other side of the canvas. “All you have to do is answer some questions and participate in a few skits, just like we normally do.” 

“Yeah, think of it as another one of our sharing circles,” Charlie says. “We’re just getting to know each other better. That’s all.”

“As long as I don’t hafta sing and clap this time,” Angel Dust says, propping his feet on Husk’s lap, “then consider us an item, babycakes.”

“You mean you don’t want to clap and sing for me,” Husk pushes Angel Dust’s feet off, “ babycakes.”

“Oh ho, was that an innuendo I heard, Husker.” Angel Dust leans closer to Husk in a coy, seductive manner, running the point of his nail up the side of a red, primary feather. “I didn’t expect it to work so fast. Maybe you’re onto somethin,’ Charlie.”

“Shut up,” Husk chuckles, smacking his wing against Angel Dust’s snickering face.

Alastor rolls his eyes. Barely five minutes in and his stomach is already turning. Maybe eating that bit of liver wasn’t such a good idea. He should’ve saved it. A little treat for himself after enduring what’s sure to be an hour of mind-numbing gibberish. 

It’s times like these that really remind him he’s in Hell.

Acid rain, quakes, and the Hunger? Easy.

Watching Angel Dust and Husker attempt to flirt? Now that’s torture.

Niffty scrambles out from under the table to clamber on top of it, using her abnormally large sewing needle to haul herself up, much like a mountain-climber would with an ice-axe. She hops in front of Charlie, waving her arms wildly, and despite not being near anybody, they all instinctively lean back to avoid the point of her needle.

“Ooh! Me! Me next! What about me!”

“Yoooou, uh,” Charlie grimaces, glancing around like a fourth participant might pop out from behind the potted shrubbery. Her eyes round back to Niffty’s excited face and she forces her grimace into a tight smile. “You...you can be with Angel and Husk!”

The aforementioned two bolt upright. “What?”

Neither of them have time to scramble to safety before Niffty springs up behind them, wrapping her thin arms around their necks, pulling them in closer. “Hehehehehehe, I’ve got two boys to play with. We’re going to have so much fun.” 

They share a terrified look.

Alastor chuckles. Atta girl.

“Let’s get started!” Charlie says, barreling on before Niffty’s newest playthings can object.

Lucifer sighs, sagging against the armrest. Charlie’s eyes flicker to him and her fingers skitter across the pointing stick, suddenly nervous. Lucifer notices a second too late, but before she sees the exaggerated enthusiasm he plasters across his face, she lifts her shoulders and yanks her confidence up like a puppet on strings. The effort is commendable, but as much as she tries to make it dance, the puppet sags, hanging off her fingers like a tangled block of wood.

It’s probably best she didn’t see Lucifer’s abysmal attempt at support. 

Honestly, if he actually intends on masking his true feelings, the least he can do is make it look authentic–for Charlie’s emotional well-being if not Alastor’s sanity. It was amusing the first few times, but he can only take so much before it starts getting stale. He likes rotting flesh as much as the next cannibal, but even he has to throw spoiled food out at some point.

While it’s true that Charlie and Lucifer technically rekindled their relationship, the fracture between them is still too large to tape together, like they’re clearly trying to do. It still bothers a part of Alastor that Charlie wants to mend her relationship with him at all. She’d let him off too quickly. Gave him a pardon for mistakes that shouldn’t have been forgiven yet, if ever. 

Words are easy. Anyone can say sorry. Anyone can promise to do better.  

It’s breaking the habit that’s hard, and if Alastor had to guess, he’d say Lucifer and recidivism are old friends.

But, Alastor sighs, if Charlie wants to ignore the ‘gators and trudge through the swamp, that’s her business . 

Some lessons are better learned the hard way.

“Okay, first up.” Vaggie claps her hands to get everyone's attention, while Charlie flips to the first page and points her stick at the title:

Lesson 1: Getting To Know Each Other

“If you two are really doing this, then you need to know each other better,” Vaggie says, pacing in front of the table with her hands behind her back, head high and shoulders squared, like a general addressing her troops. “You can’t go into this blind. You’ll both need an idea of what kind of person the other is and how well that fits with you.”

“Yeah, I think I have a pretty good idea of what kind of person he is,” Lucifer says dully. 

Alastor gives him a sideways glance. “Oh, do tell. What kind of person am I?”

“You know what, this will actually be a good exercise,” Vaggie encourages, doing her best to imitate Charlie’s bubbly charm. “Name five things you know about each other. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Lucifer holds up a finger. “He’s got a horrible taste in clothing.”

“He’s got a horrible taste in décor,” Alastor counters.

Lucifer holds up a second finger. “His bar design is ugly as fuck.”

“His obsession with apples is tacky and weird. It’s hard to tell if it’s insecurity, or all ego.”

Lucifer throws up a third finger, leaning off the couch. “He doesn’t know when to shut his mouth.”

Alastor does the same. “He thinks his presence here actually means something.”

A fourth finger gets shoved in his face. “He thinks he’s hot shit when he’s no better than every other disgusting, reprehensible sinner in this city.”

Alastor gets to his feet, looming over him. “He thinks he can fix a relationship he ruined.”

Lucifer surges up too, standing on the couch to loom over Alastor. He’d summoned his cane and now shoves the apple adornment in Alastor’s face, barely missing his nose. “He’s about to know what it feels like to get his ass blasted with holy power again.”

Alastor knocks the cane aside with his own. “You need to be holy for that.”

“Ooookay, that’s not—let’s just take a step back—there we go. I think that is a good place to stop,” Charlie says, splitting them apart with her hands. She’s stronger than expected, pushing them back firm enough to make them stumble. Alastor leans away to avoid taking her pointing stick to the eye.

“Wonderful idea, Charlie,” he says, meeting the top of Lucifer’s glare where it barely peeks over her shoulder, before returning to his seat. He props one leg over the other and leans his cane against his shoulder. The faint press of the microphone against his ear is a welcome one and he eases it a little closer to feel more of its weight. 

Lucifer whips his head from Alastor to Charlie, gesturing wildly, “You’re the one that-Charlie, he’s the one being so–-” the look on her face makes him stop. “Alright. You’re right. We can just--” he presses his hands together, takes a deep breath, and returns to the couch with a debonair smile. “Continue.”

Looking back and forth, hands up as if prepared to keep them apart, Charlie waits a few seconds to make sure they won’t jump  each other’s throats, before tapping the canvas with her pointer. “Okay, so, the first step is getting to know each other. Properly. Vaggie and I already came up with a list of questions, so all you have to do is answer them.”

Angel Dust raises a hand. “Are we gettin’ tested on any of this?”

“No, you just have to answer the questions,” Vaggie says.

Husk scratches the top of his head. “How personal are these gonna get?” he asks, voice a throaty, uncertain grumble. “Cause I ain’t spilling my guts either.”

“I think a little gut spilling would be beneficial for the group,” Alastor argues, propping his chin in his hand and leering at Lucifer. “Any volunteers?”

Lucifer flips him off.

Niffty waves her hand in imitation of Angel Dust. “Are we rearranging guts too?” She rubs her hands together with a low, sinister chuckle. “I like that part.”

“No! No, no,” Charlie waves her hands. “No. They’re just a few simple, basic questions. That’s all.”

“And very easy to answer,” Vaggie adds. Her Charlie imitation cracks as she points a threatening finger at each of them, one by one–-except for Lucifer, who she conveniently skips. “So answer them. Honestly. This won’t work if you don’t take it seriously.”

She says it, but Alastor’s not sure she’s being genuine either. As much as she follows Charlie around like a leashed puppy, hungry for pats on the head and a word of praise, even she has to see the ridiculousness of it all. Of the two, her expectations are considerably more grounded.

Charlie claps her hands together. “Okay, let's get started.” She pulls out a small stack of index cards from inside her jacket. “First question: What is your favorite color?”

Lucifer gives Alastor a once-over. “Let me guess. Red.”

Alastor splays a hand on his chest. “I can’t help it if it goes with my eyes.”

“You’re an eye sore.”

Charlie’s exasperation peeks over the cards. “Dad, please .”

Lucifer’s antagonism withers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he just-I mean, have you seen what he–-” he clears his throat and leans against the armrest. “So, favorite color, huh?” He props his cane on the floor, one hand resting on the apple, as the other taps his chin in thought. Craning his neck, he looks around the room like he can’t decide what shade of red, gold, or white he likes best. His eyes drop to the polished gold ring on his finger. His smile wanes, becoming soft and tender. 

“Purple,” he says.“I…my favorite is purple.”

Charlie’s face softens, mirroring her father’s tenderness, but the pain in her eyes is different than his. Similar, but a shade darker. She looks down at her cards, then past them at her feet. The cardstock bends, just slightly, then her grip relaxes. 

 “Yeah,” she says, meeting his eyes, but that flicker of pain is gone now, buried deep inside once more. “Purple’s a pretty good one.” 

Alastor looks between them and the tips of his smile climb higher.

Interesting.

The air gets heavy under the ensuing silence. 

Angel Dust’s eyes flicker between them, before he arches his back in a striking pose, shredding the tension. “Favorite color, eh?” He drags two hands down his body in a slow, sensual manner. “Pink, obviously.”

Husk shrugs.“I don’t know. Blue, I guess?” He glances at Angel Dust from the corner of his eye. “But pinks’ not so bad.”

Angel Dust freezes, taken aback. He stares, wide-eyed, back still arched and hands still gripping his thighs, like a promiscuous statue. It takes a few seconds for the spell to break, but when it does, his posture falls, going back to normal as he fits himself into the mold of the couch. He runs a hand quickly through his hair, and when he looks away, his cheeks are a shade darker.

Alastor stares. Blinks once. Then drags his eyes to the canvas and tilts his head, trying to calculate how many pages there are. Five? Ten? Surely there can’t be more than fifteen.

“White!” Niffty bursts, planting herself on top of the couch, directly between Husk and Angel Dust. “It’s the color that bleach makes.” She pauses. Considers. Then adds. “It’s also the color of cu—”

“Good! Okay, it looks like we’re already getting the hang of this,” Charlie says loudly, flipping to the next card. “Alright, next question: what is your favorite food?”

Angel Dust raises his hand again. “Do desserts count?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Then angel food cake, baby. It’s covered in cream, tastes good, and,” he pushes his chest fur up higher, smirking, “ it's fluffy.”

“Angel what cake?” Lucifer and Vaggie ask at the same time.

“Cream?” Niffty perks up.

“Oh, brother,” Husk rolls his eyes.

Alastor taps his chin with his microphone. “Hmm, I wonder if Rosie’s tried that. I’ll have to bring it up next time I visit.” He laughs. “Ho ho, I’m sure she still has plenty of angel left over if not.”

“I honestly can’t tell if any of you are bein’ serious right now,” Angel Dust says..

Charlie redirects the conversation with her pointing stick. “Husk, how about you?”

Husk shrugs again. “Can never go wrong with a burger.”

Lucifer thinks for a moment. “Hmm...I don’t know. Anything we used to eat when you were younger, really.” He chuckles awkwardly, shuffling forward on the couch until he’s sitting on the edge. He’s got the look of the old women Alastor used to see sitting behind the iron balustrade of their balconies, eyes heavy with yearning as they watched the youth walk by.

“You-you remember that, Charlie?” He sounds like them too, eager to return to memories of the past. “We used to eat out in the garden, when the flowers were blooming. I’d pack all your favorite sandwiches, and you’d wear your little hat-you know, the one with the big, pink bow, and we’d–-”

Niffty bounces in her seat, cutting him off.

Not to bring piety to Hell, but thank god. Alastor’s not a very merciful man, but any longer, and he would’ve asked Vaggie to fetch her spear so he could put an end to their suffering. Not even the holy poison contaminating his body is as painful as watching Lucifer attempt to connect with his daughter.

“I like Lucifer’s pancakes!” Niffty says.

Alastor’s thoughts screech to a halt. He stares at her, aghast.

The little traitor. After all the meals they’ve shared. 

“Okay,” Charlie avoids Lucifer’s large, misty eyes by pretending to rearrange her cards. “Alastor, how about you?”

“Human flesh,” he says without hesitation.

“A real answer,” Vaggie demands.

“Fine. Venison.”

Lucifer squints. “Wait, isn’t that…” Alastor grins, propping his chin on his intertwined fingers and Lucifer’s upper lip curls in disgust. “Just when I thought you couldn’t sink any lower.”

“It’s fine. We’ll just-we’ll move on.” Charlie flips to the next card. “Okay, cats or dogs?”

“Depends,” Alastor shrugs. “Smoked or roasted?”

Lucifer nods once. “Consider me corrected.”

Vaggie throws her arms in the air with a frustrated noise, one of which smacks the corner of the canvas, and Charlie lunges forward to catch it as it teeters back. Unaware of her blunder, she leans over the table with both hands planted on the polished wooden top. Strands of gray-white hair fall over her shoulders and forehead, partially covering her glare.

“Is it possible for you not to ruin everything all the time?”

“I’m doing as you asked,” Alastor shrugs. “I’m answering the questions.”

“You have to be genuine.”

“Who says I’m not?” 

Vaggie pinches the bridge of her nose, mumbling rapidly under her breath in Spanish, most likely very unflattering things about him and his character. “You know what? I just – I can’t with you,” she pushes herself up. “Let’s move on to the next lesson.”

“Good idea,” Charlie sets the cards on the table. “Up next.” 

Se flips to the next page:

Lesson 1.5 Lesson 2: Favorite Past-Times.

Husk gestures half-heartedly. “Can’t that be part of the other one?”

“Oh, no, these are hobbies and interests you like doing in your free time,” Charlie explains. “You know, to find some common ground. See if there’s anything you connect with. Angel, do you want to go first?

Angel Dust sits upright again. “Me? I, uh...I guess. Things like what? Exactly?”

“Just name something you like doing. Anything. Maybe Husk will like it too.” 

Angel Dust raises a single suggestive eyebrow. “I think I have a few things in mind we could do, if ya lookin’ for a demonstration.” Vaggie gives him a pointed look, still simmering in anger so it comes off darker than she likely intended. Angel Dust holds up his hands with a weak, tittering laugh. “But, uh,…kn-knitting's pretty fun, too.”

Husk’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Knitting?”

“Heh. Yeah.” Angel Dust rubs the back of his neck, ducking his head. “Mostly for Fat Nuggets. You know, like little sweaters and stuff. It helps after...after a long day."

“Oh.” Husk looks away. “You’ll have to show me sometime. If you want.”

Angel Dust’s head snaps up. His eyes roam over Husk, like he’s searching for lies hidden in his fur. Slowly, his face brightens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ve never seen a pig in a sweater. Sounds cute.”

“It really is,” Angel Dust gushes, his delight bursting forth as if was waiting for permission. “He’s got all these sweaters n’ bows, and little booties for his feet. He still likes chewin’ on the hats, but he does real good with scarfs. I’m thinkin’ of startin’ a line of bow ties next, but it’ll be awhile 'till I can get all the stuff for it.” He pulls his knees up, hugging them to his chest. “And you?”

“Losing at gambling,” Alastor offers, boredly scratching a claw into the armchair's carved ivory armrests, doodling a crude depiction of Lucifer with a knife in his head.

The drag of wings against the couch makes Alastor look up. He smiles. Husk’s ears are flat against his head, yellow eyes slitted, nose curled, and lips tight, like he’s holding back a snarl. His tail flicks once, twice, and then his shoulders slump, and his wings curl inward. Resignation presses down on him, tying him to his seat.

“Hey,” Vaggie snaps, stabbing the pointer stick in Alastor’s direction—having acquired it from Charlie during their lesson transition. Unlike Charlie, she wields it more like a weapon than an instrument for teaching. “That was uncalled for, Alastor. Leave Husk alone and wait your turn. And stop being such an asshole.” She adds the latter like an important afterthought, jabs the stick at him one more time in warning, and goes back to Husk, gesturing for him to continue.

Alastor opens his mouth but Charlie shoots him a pleading look. 

Fine.

Rolling his eyes, he flaps a hand at them to continue, but the mood had been effectively ruined. The cool, casual ambience turns into a stifling, awkward tension that sticks in the air like a hot, humid breeze. 

“Whatever. I don’t know,” Husk grumbles, looking away. “Comin’ up with cocktails or somethin,’ I guess.” His face turns, just enough to look at Alastor with sharp, narrowed eyes. “I’ve had plenty of practice.”

The following silence shrouds the room like a heavy fog, thick enough to cling to skin. Alastor knits his hands together, soaking in the wonderful assortment of stiff shoulders, uncomfortable grimaces, and fidgeting hands. All except for Lucifer, whose cheek is propped in his palm, body loose like he’s bored despite his scowl. It’s directed at Alastor, but there’s confusion behind it, like he’s not sure what they’re talking about, but decided he’s mad about it, anyway. 

Only Niffty is unaffected by the suddenly gray atmosphere. She’s still perched atop the couch, prim, proper, and attentive with her hands on her knees.

Charlie clears her throat, but the sound is nothing more than a feeble ray of light snuffed out by the dark overhang of clouds. “And Niffty?”

“I like dissecting corpses after acid storms,” she says brightly. “I like the smell.”

“Mhm,” Charlie winces. “I guess I should’ve expected that.” She turns her weak, wannabe smile to Lucifer. “Dad?”

“I like being in my workshop,” Lucifer answers, tearing his eyes away from Alastor. “You know, making things. Creation . All that stuff.”

Charlie nods. Her eyes flicker to Alastor and she grimaces. “And you, Alastor?”

“I’m with Niffty on this one. You can never go wrong with a good dissection.”

Silence falls again.

And, once again, it’s Charlie who breaks it with a thin voice. “Let’s move on to the next lesson.”

Vaggie switches to the next page. “Pet names,” she announces loudly, the sound jolting, like an unexpected blast from a horn. “Names of endearment, for those who don’t know.” She looks directly at Alastor.

Alastor scoffs. “Please, what’s hard to get?”

“Then why don’t you guys go first this time?”

“We would love to.” Alastor looks expectantly at Lucifer.

“Oh, gee, I get to go first. Who could’ve seen that coming,” Lucifer mutters, tugging on the bottom of his vest like Alastor’s look had wrinkled it. “So, pet names?” He looks up at the ceiling in thought, lips pursed and tapping a finger on his knee. When his contemplation turns into a sly smirk, Alastor knows he’s going to hate what comes out of his mouth.

“Deerie,” he proposes, leaning forward with a waggle of his eyebrows. “You know, because you’re a deer?”

“You’re just now noticing?” Alastor remarks sarcastically. “For someone who enjoys ‘creation,’ you sure aren’t original.”

“Oh, come on, it’s so bad it's good.”

“It’s lazy.”

“Fine.” Lucifer crosses his arms. “Then what’s your big idea?”

Alastor thinks for a moment and lists off his fingers. “Royal Pain. Candy Apple. His Royal Lowness,” he flashes his teeth, “you know, because you’re short.”

“Oh, really. Like that’s not lazy either. At least mine’s funny.”

“Try moronic.”

“Candy Apple is pretty good,” Charlie says, popping between them like an overly enthusiastic jack-in-the-box.

Alastor leans forward off the armchair, propping the upper half of his body on his cane with a cheeky grin. “I don’t like sweets.”

Charlie’s shoulders deflate. “Alastor, can you please take this seriously?” 

“I am.”

“The fuck you are,” Vaggie shoots back, gripping the pointing stick like a knife now. Given the murderous look in her eye, things might finally be getting interesting. “You’ve been nothing but uncooperative this whole time. Charlie made this for you , asshole, the least you can do is put in a little effort.”

“ I didn’t ask her to,” Alastor reminds her, standing up to brush off the front of his coat “She decided to do this little project all on her own.”

“She’s trying to help!” Vaggie exclaims. “And you know what? I think it's working. ‘Cause if it’s shown us anything, it’s that this fake dating thing of yours won’t work and it’s because of you . What do you think’s going to happen when people ask you about Charlie’s dad? How do you think it’ll look when you can't name a single thing he likes? When you can’t name a single thing you like about him. This isn’t going to last a day and it’ll be all your fault.”

Alastor strikes the bottom of his cane on the carpet. The sound itself isn’t especially loud, but the action is so sharp and sudden that Vaggie steps back, wings flaring open. Even years after falling, she still acts like an Exorcist, puffing her feathers like a pigeon trying to make itself look bigger. It’d be slightly more intimidating if she had her spear. 

But only slightly.

The holy energy flares despite him pressing down on his agitation, but it's added pain only fuels his desire to yank that stupid pointing stick out of her hand, snap it in half; and use its splintered pieces to pin someone–-anyone–-to the wall in a gross display of what happens when he’s pushed . He wants to summon his dark magic and wrap a tendril around that canvas until it's crushed under the pressure. He wants to take every single one of Charlie’s cards and shove them down Lucifer’s throat.

He doesn’t want this. 

He didn’t ask for this. 

His plan was to make a few public appearances, play nice, and let Hell come to its own conclusions. To give the city a taste and let their imagination do the rest. The rumors have already done the heavy lifting, all he and Lucifer need to do is add a few sticks to the fire.

With the way Vaggie, Charlie, all of them, are going on, they’re expecting an elaborate performance. Forcing him into the role of an ostentatious Romeo acting out grand gestures of love for every snapping picture and black-eyed camera. Like he and Lucifer will be going on actual dates. Like they’re going to hold hands, and sit in each other's laps, and cuddle on a park bench with barely a hint of space between them.

He’s seen it all before, from couples in both life and afterlife, and—and how can they stand it? How do they not feel completely and wholly suffocated? If they’re expecting him to let Lucifer run his hands all over his body, and stick to his side like a burr twisted into his clothes, then they’re sorely mistaken.

Why is his favorite color so important, anyway? What’s the point of a pet name he’s never going to use? They’re not sitting down for an interview, or taking questions from hounding reporters, so how is any of this relevant? 

“This is a waste of time,” he decides, skirting around the armchair and out of the lounge. “If I’m needed, I’ll be anywhere but here.”

“What? Wait, Alastor,” Charlie says, footsteps muffled against the carpet as she follows him. “Please don’t go. I really think this will help. Let us finish first, I promise it’ll–”

“It’ll do nothing,” Alastor snaps, sharper than he intended, but his hackles are raised. He’s not a poor, wicked soul she can change through sharing circles and lesson plans. He’s not going to allow himself to be coerced into a cage. If she plans on suffocating him, she can’t expect him to hand her the pillow 

“Your enthusiasm is commendable, darling, but this is pointless.” He looks at her over his shoulder. “Save yourself the trouble and stop wasting my time.” 

Charlie steps back, hurt flashing across her face. Her shoulders curl inward as she rubs her arm, suddenly unable to look at him. “I’m…I’m sorry, I just…I just wanted to help.” 

Alastor turns away. “Spare me the pain and go ‘help’ someone else.”

“Hey,” Lucifer yells at his back, “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? Charlie made all this herself–-” 

“Vaggie helped too,” Charlie mumbles.

“--so the least you can do is let her finish it.” Lucifer barrels on.

“Then you stay,” Alastor snaps, climbing the padded stairs without so much as a glance over his shoulder. “If any of you come up with a class that’s not complete nonsense, feel free to fetch me. Until then.”

He hears the flutter of multiple unfurling wings and the temperature in the room gets unexpectedly warm. At his back, Charlie cries, “Dad, no! Wait–-” and Alastor’s heart thumps hard and sudden, like the back of a hand smacking him in the chest to get his attention. The hairs on the back of his neck rise, goosebumps crawl up his arms, and suddenly, the weight of a presence looms behind him.

His senses sharpen, whetted by the sudden rush of anticipation. 

In a single, sucked in breath, time hangs in suspension, pulling itself above his head and perching on the crystal chandelier to watch from a better angle. Like the flip of a switch, Alastor’s mind kicks into gear, racing to calculate every tactic Lucifer might try. Chances are, he’s going to grab him from behind. The two quickest places to do so would be his arm, near the elbow, or the back of his collar. He’s flying, so he has the aerial advantage. He’ll come in from above. The back of the collar then. 

Alastor jumps to the side and is immediately blinded by a mass of red and white feathers. Multiple wings knock into him, nearly throwing him off his feet from their unexpected strength. He braces himself against the stairway railing, gripping its sturdy iron-cast, and raises his other hand to shield himself from the obstructing feathers, searching for Lucifer within the swarm. 

Suddenly, through the pandemonium, Alastor is staring into a pair of blazing red eyes, yellow pupils slitted into a sharp, thin line, like a snakes’. Alastor drops a few steps down, evading Lucifer’s grasp again. The stairs are fairly wide, but there’s only so many places he can go. His options are up or down, and he is not going back to the lounge. 

He refuses. 

“Alastor!” Lucifer growls. It’s a dark and resonant sound that belongs in the deepest trenches at the bottom of the ocean. Alastor thinks, for a moment, he can feel the power in his voice. Real, tangible power that runs up his skin like an electric current, hot and stinging. The hairs on his arms rise, there’s a coil in his gut, and an unexpected thrill up his spine. 

Then he’s ducking again as Lucifer lunges. 

His own power rises, surging to the surface like a drowning beast desperate for air. He thinks about shadow-traveling, but given recent experience, he won’t get far. Tendrils of dark matter won’t do any good if he doesn’t have enough strength to direct them, and summoning enough minions to distract Lucifer would send him to his knees before he could put them to any use.

He’s horribly exposed without the full extent of his abilities, and what’s worse, Lucifer knows that. He’s seen it twice now, when he came across Alastor during opening day, and when Alastor had collapsed outside his bedroom. He’s probably expecting it, just waiting for his body to turn on him.

No, for this, Alastor will have to rely on his physical capabilities. Perhaps not as impressive as his demonic magic, but this wouldn’t be the first time he’s gone up against someone stronger than him. (Stronger. The word tastes sour and rotten, like bad vinegar.). The wound won’t impact him as much so long as he doesn’t use his magic or overexert himself.

It’s not ideal, but he’s pretty sure he’s dealt with worse.

Lucifer is back in the air, but this time when he surges forward, Alastor barely side-steps, giving him room to get close. Planting his feet, he grabs one of the many flapping wings and swings hard, veering him off course. Lucifer grunts as he hits the railing, but it doesn’t sound pained. Only annoyed. Alastor doesn’t turn around to check. He surges up the stairs, eyes trained on the landing. 

What am I doing? 

The thought drives into his brain like a hammered nail, grinding him to a halt.

How must this look? Him, The Radio Demon, bounding up the stairs like a startled rabbit. Running away. 

Vox’s accusation comes back to him: “Broke his little microphone, got pummeled into the ground, and ran off with his tail between his legs, like the coward he—”

Like the coward he is, Alastor finishes in his head. He can picture Vox’s face. That smug, shark-toothed grin, antennas sparking, eyes narrowed in pure, malicious delight. Something dark and ugly drips inside his chest: sticky and black and burning .

His hesitation costs him. 

A shadow falls over his head. He barely has time to whirl around before Lucifer’s fists are in his shirt and he’s tackled into the stairs. The edges of the steps dig into his back, shoulders, and legs, forcing him into a position that’s as awkward as it is uncomfortable. There’s no leverage to pull himself up with. Not with Lucifer’s weight pressing down on him, keeping him pinned. 

Lucifer’s stronger than he looks. Even when Alastor grips his wrists to pry him from his shirt, leaning up with all his might to throw him off, Lucifer doesn’t budge. His comparison of Lucifer’s hands to granite suddenly feels more real.

“Get. Off!” Alastor snarls. His voice is layered in so much static, he wonders if it can be made out at all. His antlers crack, getting heavy on his head, but the added weight only drags  him down further. Radio waves buzz around him, wriggling like worms. Though invisible, they pop and crackle, filling the space between them like a swarm of agitated bugs. 

“You’re going downstairs and finishing Charlie’s class,” Lucifer orders. He lifts Alastor up by his shirt, as if to drag him down, and Alastor’s stomach constricts. 

Caught by the scruff. Dropped in a chair. Forced to stay put. Like a disobedient child in time-out. His heart beats in his ears. Humiliation heats his face, and he digs his claws into Lucifer’s skin, but even then, all it earns him are a few pin-pricks of golden blood. 

His jaw tightens. Tough skin or not, the Great King of Hell better prepare to lose a hand. Alastor may not have his magic, but he still has his teeth.

“Dad, stop!” Charlie is suddenly behind Lucifer, pulling him off by his coat. More shoes scuffle, and Vaggie appears on his other side, helping Charlie pry him away. 

“Don’t do it, your Highness,” she says. “It’s not worth it.”

When Lucifer finally releases his shirt, it's like a weight is lifted off Alastor’s chest. He turns over, gasping for air, ears ringing and thoughts fuzzy. He doesn’t understand why his vision is swimming, why it feels like his flesh is being ripped open, until he looks down and sees a bright white glow emanating through his coat. The infection pulses, sending shockwaves through his system, and if not for a pair of firm hands catching him, he would’ve collapsed back onto the steps. 

“Alastor!” He’s turned over and Charlie’s face swims into view. Big yellow eyes jumping from him to his chest and her concern becomes distress. “Shit. Shit. Vaggie!” 

Vaggie appears at Charlie’s side. Her eyes widen. “Oh fuck . That is…that does not look good. Come on, get him up. Alastor, can you stand?” 

Her words are muffled and watery, and it takes a few seconds to decipher them.

He tries to nod, to move, but it feels like his chest is caving in. They help him sit up when he’s unable to do so himself, and as soon as he’s upright, the pressure on his lungs recedes. The relief lasts only seconds before he doubles over, coughing so violently it rattles his bones and rubs his throat raw. Blood fills his mouth, dripping down the side of his jaw, warm and sticky.

“Alastor!” Niffty’s voice rings from below, and past Charlie and Vaggie, he spots her at the bottom of the stairs, her single eye wide and so full of concern it makes a deep part of him ache. Husk appears beside her, and next to him, Angel Dust.

Alastor looks at them numbly, and then a shocking cold washes down his skin. 

He brushes Charlie’s hands aside and grasps the railing, hauling himself up. They rush forward, hands outstretched to help, but he glares over his shoulder in warning, eyes flashing black. The yellow dial of his pupils ticks in his head, like a bomb had been planted in his brain. He latches onto it, letting the tick-tick-tick spur him into action to keep it from exploding here, in front of so many people.

He leans his weight into the railing as soon as he’s on his feet, using it to pull himself up the stairs. Charlie steps forward again, arms outstretched to help. His name is barely leaving her mouth when his shadow rears off the ground and sends her stumbling back. It expands, growing larger and larger until it looms over the stairs in one overwhelming black mass. Though it doesn’t speak, it curls forward, shoulders rising, long fingers curving, as its face twists into a snarl.

The threat is as obvious as if it’d been screamed. 

Vaggie grabs Charlie’s arm and pulls her down the stairs. 

“But--” Charlie says, pained. 

“He wants to be alone.” 

“But Vaggie–-” 

“I know, Charlie. But if he doesn’t want our help…” she hesitates, at a loss. “Then I guess we can’t force it on him.” 

 Alastor strains his ears as he makes it to the landing and stumbles down the hall. Blocking out the fading voices, he searches only for the flap of wings and pursuing footsteps. Adrenaline crackles through his bloodstream like a busted transmitter searching for a signal. It fills his body with static. His chest pulses again and he teeters. 

He listens.

Nothing.

He listens harder.

Still nothing.

Lucifer wouldn’t dare upset Charlie, he rationalizes. He won’t risk what little progress they’ve made. If she tells him to stay, he’ll stay.

So why is his heart still racing?

His chest throbs. He swallows hard. A trickle of nervous sweat slides down his temple, and he quickly wipes it away, eyes darting to make sure it’d gone unnoticed. 

But the hall is empty. He’s alone.

Does that matter, though? They already saw him. They saw him. His mind flashes to Charlie’s distress. Vaggie’s surprise. Niffty’s wide-eyed concern. The way Husk’s eyebrows were shot up, startled by what he witnessed, and Angel Dust’s slack-jawed shock.

Alastor presses his trembling hands to his chest. Then forces them back down at his side. Heat floods his body. His face twists in rage. He can’t tell what’s stronger: his pain, his disgust, or his embarrassment. 

He doesn’t know which one he hates more. 

His shadow stretches in front of him, rising out of the ground again to keep a lookout over his shoulder. Its ears are still pinned back, mirroring his own, and he wonders if their faces are the same too. If he looks that stricken. 

That panicked.

He doesn’t complain this time when his shadow directs him through the halls, taking him as far away from the smell of brimstone as possible.

Chapter Text

There are many, many things about the new hotel that makes Alastor want to set himself on fire and throw himself off the highest balcony. But if there is one thing he’ll admit to liking, it’s the library.

Once dead, he was surprised to find that not only did Hell have a semi-functional society, it also had a very active publishing industry. Granted, a lot of its publications were of the violent and depraved variety, but given that a majority of the books he’d been allowed to read growing up were religious, he’s found wicked delight in such unabashed writing.

A lot of sinners say that their demon bodies were the biggest shock they had to overcome after arriving but, for Alastor, it was the fact that he found better reading material in Hell than he ever did on Earth.

He can’t say the hotel’s selection meets the standard of “good reading material,” though. Most of the shelves are stuffed with self-help books and, if not those, it’s row after row of sickeningly sweet stories about finding betterment through friendship and love. Horrid reads. He does not recommend them.

Fortunately, Charlie and her dad spared no expense when they designed the room. The bookshelves are long, almost the length of the wall, and stretch so high up they nearly touch the ceiling. On the ground floor they sit in tidy rows, from one end of the room to the other, but two staircases—the first near the door and the second running perpendicular to it across the room—lead to a wrap-around balcony with more bookshelves, these embedded into the wall. It’s because of the sheer immensity of it all that he was able to throw out a handful of mental health books and sneak a few of his own inside with no one the wiser.

He’s lounging on the ground floor in one of the comfortable, lush armchairs near the grand-fireplace, feet propped on an ottoman, cane leaning against the armrest, and a book in hand, when Charlie and Vaggie find him. As soon as he hears the scrape of the door against the carpet, his shadow crawls up along the top of the headrest and bares its teeth in a silent growl. 

“We’re not here to fight,” Vaggie says, holding up her hands in a placating manner, which she purposefully directs at the large, black mass looming over Alastor’s head. “We’re just here to talk.”

Charlie’s hands bounce stiffly at her sides. She says nothing, just nods in agreement, but her eyes bore into him so heavily it's a wonder his skull doesn’t cave in. Briefly, he considers sending them away. If he had even an ounce of interest in Charlie’s class before, it was gone now. Rejoining his fellow “students” for a second try sounds as appealing as ripping out his own teeth, and the people—or, at least, one in particular—he’ll be brushing shoulders with certainly doesn’t help. 

The image of red and white feathers flutters through his mind and, for a moment, he can still feel a pressing weight on his chest as stone-like hands pin him down.

The bruises forming on his back all seem to throb at once, and their tenderness becomes more noticeable as he leans back into his chair. There’s a deep, throbbing ache in his tail-bone from slamming into the stairs so hard, and even his tail—his tail— hurts, sending small, sharp zips up his spine whenever it moves. His fight with Adam aside, it’s been a while since he’s taken damage like this, as small as his bumps and bruises are.

If he’s being brutally honest with himself, it’s his pride that had taken the biggest hit. He’ll only admit it in the privacy of his own mind as he presses the uncomfortable, white-hot truth down with all his might, but the stabbing humiliation is so sharp and deep that his efforts crumble. He’s struck with the irrational urge to barricade the door, hunker down in his chair, and wallow in the pathetic illusion of freedom it creates.

Or maybe he’ll just wander the halls until the hotel swallows him up, forever lost in its maroon wallpaper and carpeted floors. There's a certain freedom in self-appointed banishment. 

Neither option will work, though, because he lives with a castle-building idealist who’s pervicacity is only enjoyable when it’s not directed at him. Charlie will leave him alone if he asks, but she’ll keep bouncing back, faithful as a rubber ball hitting a wall.

Without a word, Alastor snaps his fingers, and his shadow slinks down the armchair. It peers over the armrest, giving the two a final, suspicious glare, before sinking to the floor.

Charlie and Vaggie hesitate for a moment before tentatively sitting on the couch next to him. A long silence passes that’s only broken by the raspy sound of turning pages. Alastor reads one more paragraph before finally addressing them with a perfunctory look.

Even then, they take a minute to find a proper start. Unsurprisingly, it’s Charlie who breaks the ice. “Alastor,” she begins, fingers twining and untwining in her lap. “We, um…fir-first off, I know you didn’t really like the class. It was slapped together, and it’s definitely not my best work. We were on a time crunch, so we had to Voogle a few things, which I know might’ve—”

“Babe, the class was fine,” Vaggie says, grabbing Charlie’s hand with a supportive smile. A smile that disappears as soon as it’s turned on him. “That wasn’t the problem.”

“Hmm, agree to disagree,” Alastor says, turning his attention back to his book. A riveting tale about a woman and her cannibalistic exploits on Earth. A biography written by one of Cannibal Town’s own residents’, actually. Very good prose. Her use of description is excellent, if a little flowery at times.

“Everyone else was doing just fine,” Vaggie continues, her voice sharpening with an annoyed edge when he pretends to keep reading. “You’re the one who was making a problem.” Her frustration has cooled to a smolder since the debacle downstairs. It’s not as bright or ferocious as before, but Alastor can still smell smoke in the air. He always did have a knack for stoking fires.

“Charlie was just trying to help you with your stupid plan,” she barrels on, flames rising. “The least you can do is show a little appreciation.”

“Vaggie, it’s okay,” Charlie sets her other hand on top of Vaggie’s, squeezing it. “Alastor was right, he didn’t ask for it, and I…well, I didn’t ask either. I don’t want him feeling any more uncomfortable than he already is. We’ve got to take his feelings into account too.”

Alastor’s eye twitches.

He laughs, tracing a finger down the rough texture of the page. “Uncomfortable is hiding behind a bush with a decomposing hunk of meat in your arms, waiting for the night watchmen to finish his smoke and leave. Uncomfortable is getting a piece of sinew stuck between your teeth. That,” he wiggles his fingers in indication of her class, “wasn’t uncomfortable, Charlie, it was a waste of our time and your paper.”

He half closes the book, bookmarking the page with his thumb, and props his chin in his hand. “I don’t think you two grasp the simplicity of my plan, so allow me to shed some much needed light. You see, Hell loves its scandals. Really, it’s ninety percent of what the media runs! Now, I enjoy a bit of good gossip myself from time to time,” he admits playfully, “but this city thrives on it. If we give them a match, they’ll make the fire.” 

He heaves a heavy sigh. “It’s in poor taste, but as long as your father and I are seen together, the media will do more than just keep the rumors going, they’ll start making up their own. They’re starved for drama—and I can’t say I don’t relate,” he confesses cheekily. “Really, Hell is more than happy to do the work for us! With all your love for demonkind, would you really deny them this sliver of happiness?”

“Oh, please ,” Vaggie scoffs, crossing her arms. “There’s a difference between supporting her people and letting them drag her dad’s name through the mud.” 

Alastor presses the back of his hand to his forehead in dramatized offense. “And no concern for my name? Really , Vaggie.” 

“Charlie’s dad told us you’re going to the Cannibal Cookout this weekend.” She barrels on.

He hums in assent.

“So, there’s probably going to be a lot of reporters there.”

Alastor shrugs, unbothered. “Well, that depends on how fast the word gets out and how willing they are to enter Cannibal Town unannounced, especially on its most celebrated holiday.” He glances to the side, considering that with dark amusement. “Not a lot of demons have the guts for that. I suppose, if they make it past the children, they’ll have more than earned it. That is, if they make it back out alive.” He cackles.

“Yeah, well, even if they don’t, the rest of Cannibal Town will, and they’re all going to be watching you two,” Vaggie argues. “No one’s going to believe for a second that you’re together if you can’t go two minutes without fighting. If you ask me, this won’t last an hour before it falls apart.”

“I didn’t ask you.”

“Vaggie has a point,” Charlie says, putting a hand on Vaggie’s shoulder and gently pushing her back on the couch when she rises, mimicking choking Alastor with her hands. Her tone is gentler than her girlfriend’s. Padded and careful, like she’s trying not to startle him.

Alastor glowers.

“I understand why you and dad are doing this,” she says. “Dad, he…I think it’ll be good for him to get out and see the city. And after what happened downstairs,” her expression darkens, and she glances briefly at his chest, “that shouldn’t have happened. My dad…I talked to him. It won’t happen again, I promise. I want you to have all the time you need to heal, Alastor. As much as you need. ”

Alastor’s glower deepens.

“But, if you still want to do this, well…” she sucks a breath in through her teeth, “you guys aren’t exactly giving off relationship vibes.”

“And what kind of relationship ‘ vibes ,’” Alastor finger-quotes, “were you expecting?”

“Something that isn’t antagonistic,” Vaggie offers.

“Well, seeing how you two are the experts here, how would we do that?” Even as he asks, he leans back, crossing his legs and flipping open his book. His eyes skim the paragraphs blindly, stuffing his rising agitation into the gaps between the words before they reach his pulsing chest.

“I don’t know, like, holding hands occasionally. Sticking with each other. Showing a smidgen of affection. It’s not that hard.” Vaggie gestures between her and Charlie. “Do you think anyone has a hard time figuring out we’re together?”

Alastor’s eyes slide over to her and he snaps his book shut.

“Well, that’s our problem, isn’t it?” He gets up and strolls to the bookshelf next to the fireplace, running his fingers along the line of leather-bound spines until he comes across an open slot and returns the book to its place. He’ll move them when guests start checking in, on a higher up shelf that’s less conspicuous. “As much as you’re trying to mold us into a ‘proper’ couple, darling, we are not you .”

He rolls his eyes as he turns around and leans forward on his cane. “Honestly, do I,” he presses a hand to his chest, “come off as the hand holding type?”

Charlie lifts a finger. Grimaces. Puts her finger down.

“Well…okay, fine. Not really,” Vaggie admits. “But—”

“The problem here is that you,” he points his microphone accusingly, “are trying to fit us into your relationship.”

“We’re, no we’re not,” Vaggie denies hotly, and that delightful frustration of hers crackles louder. “We were showing you the bare bones of what a relationship is.”

“You had to base it off something,” Alastor argues, rolling the stem of his cane between his fingers as he circles the sitting area. “So whose experiences did you go off of? Certainly not mine, so maybe your father’s?” This he directs at Charlie. “Those silly little rom-coms you enjoy so much? Niffty’s depraved collection of books? Angel Dusts’ horribly, and I mean horribly, written picture-shows, maybe?”

Charlie looks down with furrowed eyebrows. “I…”

“I’m sure you two come off as quite the couple,” Alastor continues, coming to a stop behind the couch across from them, “but, however tasteful your suit is, Charlie, I’m afraid our styles just don’t match.”

“I…” Charlie frowns. “I mean, we did kind of model it off of us, I guess.”

Vaggie holds onto her irritation for a second longer, before releasing it with a sigh. “Okay. You have a point,” she admits, slumping into the couch. She leans her neck back, staring up at the high ceiling with a suddenly tired expression.

For a moment, just a moment , Alastor feels sympathy for her. Going along with Charlie’s enthusiastic plans day-in and day-out has to be exhausting, no matter how devoted she is. There are only so many rainbows and sparkles one can take before it starts hurting ones’ eyes. Only so many trust exercises and therapy-circles before it gets grating.

But the moment is fleeting.

That’s what love does to you, he supposes. And that’s a path Vaggie chose. Her dedication is admirable, he’ll give her that. It’s good that Charlie has at least one constant person in her life. Someone who won’t abandon her on a whim. That’s a precious gift.

Alastor perches himself on top of the couch, leaning back on one hand to keep his balance as the other continues to lazily spin his cane between his fingers, waiting for the two to come to their own conclusions. After a moment, Vaggie blows out a breath and sits up, looking at him again.

“You’ve got a point,” she repeats. The fire in her eyes had lost its heat. “I guess we weren’t really thinking of you two when we made it. We were kind of basing it off ourselves, and you two,” she snorts, a quick smile pulling on her lips, “well, I can see where we went wrong.” She observes him more closely, considering. “We can adjust it,” she offers tentatively. “Work around what we’ve got and fit you two in. You can give us more input in what you wanted to do and we’ll workshop it. But,” she says this firmly, “that doesn’t change the fact that this won’t work until you take it seriously.”

Alastor rolls his eyes.

“That! That’s what I mean,” she hauls herself up and stands in front of the couch he’s perched on. “We’re just trying to help, Alastor. Yeah, it could’ve gone better, but we are trying. If it wasn’t working for you, then you could’ve said something instead of just…making it impossible for everyone else.”

“Well, I thought it was rather obvious,” Alastor says, admiring the green glow of the fire against his microphone.

“It would’ve been a lot more obvious if you told us,” Vaggie growls. Then sighs again and the tension in her shoulders softens. “Look, you guys don’t have to be lovers. You don’t have to be partners like me and Charlie. Nobody expects that, believe me. But maybe…maybe friends is a good place to start.”

Alastor purses his lips.

“You don’t have to be good friends,” she adds in exasperation. “You can be colleagues. Or good acquaintances. As long as you can pretend you don’t want to fight each other, then you might be able to pull this off. Maybe. Otherwise, your chances are moot. End of story.”

Alastor hums. He’s confident he can pull himself together in front of a crowd. It’s not the first time he’s had to put on a front. Ha! Considering he’s been living with this bunch for the last six months, he’d say he’s gotten even better at it. Playing a character is second nature at this point.

But there are advantages to learning more about Lucifer. His habits. His likes. Dislikes. Goals. The “all-powerful King of Hell” has to have more to him than just a desperate need for connection and a love for all-things-Charlie.

He hops off the couch with a peppy twirl of his cane. “You make a fine argument,” he concedes graciously, “but do you really expect this class to do all that?”

“Well, it’ll help you guys get to know each other, at least,” Charlie says, finally pulling herself out of her thoughts and standing next to Vaggie. “And, I guess it’ll give you an idea of what other people are expecting, too.”

Alastor huffs and props his cane against his shoulder.

“Believe me, getting to know each other is the first step to making this work,” she insists. The earlier spark in her eyes is returning, fueled by new information and half-formed schemes.

“Fine,” Alastor sighs, as if tired—which he is. It’s not even afternoon yet, and this day has already dragged on for far too long. Sitting on top of the couch certainly hadn’t helped his tail-bone or, consequently, his mood. “I’ll give your charming little class another try. But just one.”

Vaggie points a finger. “And that means you’ve got to actually try this time. You don’t have to answer every question if you don’t want to, but you need to give Charlie’s dad something to work with.” The hint of a smirk plays on her face. “It looks like he’s going to be pulling most of the weight, anyway.”

Alastor cocks his head to the side, squinting in offense. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

She squints back. “You know what I mean.”

“Annnd let’s head back downstairs!” Charlie says brightly, one finger in the air as she pops between them. “We don’t want to keep everyone waiting.”

Please, as if they haven’t been waiting for the last forty-five minutes.

Alastor and Vaggie don’t break eye-contact until they get to the door, and it’s only because Charlie loops her arm with Vaggie’s and drags her down the hall that their little contest ends. With their backs to him, Alastor’s shadow stretches in front of him with an inquiring look.

It’ll be fine, he tells it through their tether, but he can’t say for sure who he’s reassuring. His shadow, or himself. 

They are attached, so both, technically. 

He stares ahead, past the two talking women, and down the long stretch of the hall. It shouldn’t take long to get back to the stairs. To the parlor. His tail twitches, sending a sharp zing of pain up his spine. His bruises throb. The infection pokes at him, sensing an apprehension that he instantly snuffs out.

Drawing his shoulders up, he switches on an amiable smile, and grasps the stem of his cane so tightly it puts a strain in his hand, both of which he hides behind his back.

It’ll be fine, he repeats. I’ll make sure of it.

“We’re ready to try again!” Charlie announces in a loud, singsong voice from atop the stairs.

Alastor rolls his eyes. If she insists on making a big deal about it, she may as well go all out. Hire a marching band. Fire off confetti. Order catering. Unfurl a banner and pin a gold medal to his chest for even giving this omnishamble another try.  

Like always, her audience doesn’t share her enthusiasm. All of their heads turn simultaneously and they watch with wary eyes as he, Charlie, and Vaggie descend to the stairs. Any hint of a casual ambiance had fled the room the moment he appeared, and the air got thicker and more stifling the closer he gets to the foyer. Or maybe it’s been like that the whole time. He wouldn’t be surprised considering the expressions on the rest of their faces. Grim and nervous, like a group of hostages held at gunpoint. Or convicted felons staring at the rope hanging off a sheriff’s belt.

The smell of brimstone is mostly gone. Traces of it still linger in the air, but it’s enough to send a chill down Alastor’s spine. He doesn’t mean to search for Lucifer. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until he spots him on the couch, sitting in the same seat as before, but with his head bowed and his shoulders hunched. Alastor lets out the breath he was holding. And then kicks himself for even caring. It doesn’t matter where Lucifer is or what he’s doing. As long as he’s still going along with the plan, then everything else is irrelevant. He doesn’t look at Lucifer again, but keeps his ears trained on him. 

Just in case.

The clicking of his shoes transitions into a muffle as the floor goes from wood to carpet, and the sudden emptiness of sound leaves a frayed hole in the air. Uncomfortably open and a touch drafty. 

Charlie reclaims her place in front of the couches and looks over their smattering of associates like a priest surveying an uneasy congregation. Clearing her throat, she picks up her pointing stick and asks, “Ready?”

Alastor claims the same armchair as before. Calm. Casual. Unharmed. No twinge from his tail as it’s wedged between the cushion. No throb from his tailbone as he pretends to get comfortable. And definitely no aching bruises as he leans into the backrest. He lays his cane across his lap, but can’t convince his fingers to let go, so keeps them knitted over the stem as casually as he can manage

He doesn’t give Charlie a verbal reply, just urges her on with a dip of his head.

She looks at Lucifer, who’s still frowning down at his feet with his hands dangling between his legs. He has the air of a pouting child, one that feels they’ve been unjustly chastised. Whatever Charlie said to make him so subdued, Alastor suddenly wishes he’d been there to see it. He keeps telling them he’s here to be entertained, so goddammit, he is going to be entertained.

Lucifer looks up when the silence stretches, belatedly realizing they’re waiting on him, and straightens. “Yep!” His enthusiasm is plastic. “Ready. So ready.”

Charlie gives him an appreciative look. It’s warm enough to disperse a few wisps of the black clouds hanging over Lucifer’s head, but his shoulders remain heavy wet bags of sand. She points her stick at Angel Dust and Husk, who snap to attention. They’d become statues the moment Alastor appeared on the stairs, bodies stiff and motionless, like they’d been carved right out of the couch. Only their eyes move as they dart between him and Lucifer, the motion so frantic and uneasy one might assume they had a bomb taped under their seats.

“Why don’t you guys take a break,” Charlie says, snapping them out of their Medusa curse. “We’re going to try a more one-on-one session, if you don’t mind.”

Husk is the first to break his stone casing. “Gladly.” He hauls himself up. “Come on, Niff.” He picks Niffty up by the scruff and lifts her off the table, where she’d been lounging on her stomach and kicking her feet in the air.

“So, what’dya wanna do?” Angel asks, springing up to follow them.

Husk shrugs. “Well, I wouldn’t mind seein’ those sweaters you were talking about.”

Angel Dust makes an excited noise and Alastor tunes out the rest of their conversation as they hightail it upstairs. His spine loses some of its tension when they’re gone,  It’s bad enough that he has to trudge through this class with Lucifer playing his paramour and Charlie their overly enthusiastic relationship coach, the last thing he needs is a front-row seat to Husk and Angel’s obscure courting dance too. Besides, he’s not all that interested in what kind of sweaters Angel Dust knits for that little monster of his. The only dressing up he does to pigs is with spices and potatoes.

But where he sinks more comfortably into his chair, Lucifer jolts up, clutching the armrest like a drowning man to a lifebuoy.

“Shouldn’t they be here?” he asks, voice cracking. “You know, so they know the plan, too?”

“Getting you two on the same page is more important than Angel and Husk knowing what your favorite food is,” Vaggie says, far more gently, and more carefully, than she’s ever spoken to Alastor. He can’t decide if it’s because of Lucifer’s royal status or if it's because he’s her partner’s father. She’s been referring to him strictly as “your majesty,” and “Charlie’s dad,” so a bit of both, maybe.

And that’s another person letting him get away with whatever he wants, Alastor grouses. Where was all that righteous talk about honesty when Lucifer was tailoring all his answers to appeal to Charlie? 

“What we need is to find some common ground between you two. There has to be something we can build this relationship off of, it's just a matter of digging it out. Charlie and I figured it’d be easier if we started the lesson plan over, so try to get through it without snapping at each other,” Vaggie says, proving Alastor’s point when she looks directly at him.

“ I wasn’t the one who snapped first,” Alastor sniffs.

Vaggie opens her mouth to argue, but, shockingly, it’s Charlie who comes to his defense. “No, he’s right, Vaggie,” she says. “It wasn’t just him. I think we all could’ve handled it a lot better.” The steely look she gives Lucifer is unexpected, and Alastor looks between them in surprise as Lucifer winces and looks away, rubbing the back of his neck.

Alastor doubts he feels any actual remorse for slamming him into the stairs. His only concern since reuniting with Charlie has been what she thinks of him, and judging by the sag in his shoulders, her opinion isn’t currently in his favor. Still, it’s rare for Charlie to act out on her anger, and again Alastor wishes he’d been there to see it. 

That she’d gotten angry on his behalf is a pleasant surprise in and of itself. Lucifer barely masks his contempt for sinners, and Charlie mirrors that, but only in the sense that she, too, is incapable of hiding her feelings. She’s as transparent as Vox’s hypnotism when it comes to her devotion to her subjects and, technically, Alastor falls under that category. Which is…strange to think about.

Maybe he was too hasty in assuming she’d let Lucifer get away with his attitude. She’s always been protective of her guests—the two that she’s had, at least—and the hotel is due to get a significant amount more. So either Lucifer learns to hide his contempt, or he adopts Charlie’s everyone-can-be-saved mentality. 

Alastor can’t decide on which one he finds more amusing.

Charlie lets out a slow breath and then perks up. “But that’s what second chances are for!” she continues, picking her pointing stick up off the table. “Like Vaggie said, we want to take this from the top, but this was your plan to begin with, so we figured you could, you know,” she chuckles sheepishly, waving the stick around, “have a little more input this time.”

“Ah, finally something I can agree with,” Alastor approves. “What this needs is a proper collaboration. I’m a solo act by nature, but every entertainer worth their salt performs a duet from time to time.” He crosses his legs in a show of getting comfortable. “So, shall we begin?”

“Now that’s the energy I’m looking for!” Charlie cheers, and the beaming smile she gives him makes Lucifer sit up. 

His lips tighten, straining his smile, and he straightens his posture intending to appear attentive, but there’s panic behind it. He moves too quickly, like a runner realizing he’d fallen behind in a race. His eyes are so frantic as they jump between him and Charlie, that he loses whatever modicum of composure he was attempting to scrap together.

  So easy to read, Alastor muses. That’s going to have to be the first thing to go.

“Right. Yeah. Let’s get started,” Lucifer agrees. If Charlie notices his overzealous tone, or the strain between his eyes, she doesn’t draw attention to it and flips to the first page.

Lesson 1: Getting To Know Each Other

“Okay, so, since we’re all collaborating on this now, I think it’s best if we all get a say on what each lesson entails. Alastor, you said you have a plan, so what do you think of this one?”

Alastor pretends to mull it over. Honestly, he’s already accepted that this lesson was necessary, even if the questions themselves were meaningless, but the illusion of thinking about it draws Charlie’s attention on him, eager for his response, which makes the lines of Lucifer’s shoulders grow taut.

He feels his shadow snicker, echoing his amusement from behind the armchair where it’s hidden from view. 

He nods after a moment and says, “Yes, I suppose this will work. Like you said, knowing small details about each other will certainly buy into the illusion.”

“Great! Dad?” Charlie turns to Lucifer, who nods quickly. 

“Yeah! Yep, agreed. I think it’s a great idea. Let’s do it!”

“Then let’s get started,” Vaggie says, picking up a stack of cards from the table.

“We’ll only do a few questions.” Charlie turns to reassure Alastor, and he rolls his eyes.

“Rein it in, Charlie,” he drawls. “I’m still here.” Honestly, he’s not a sad, Heaven-seeking soul. She doesn’t need to coddle him. 

“Okay, we’re gonna go over the ones we already started, so question one,” Vaggie says, reading the card. “What is your favorite color?”

“Purple,” Lucifer says. He doesn’t touch his ring this time, but his fingers twitch, like they want to. “It’s—it’s still purple.”

The pain in Charlie’s eyes doesn’t appear like it did the last time Lucifer alluded to her mother. She smiles, soft and understanding, but it’s shielded. She arranges her features carefully. Thoughtfully. Hiding whatever wound is bleeding beneath her skin. The tenderness in her expression isn’t insincere by any means, but it’s not honest either.

They all look at him, and Alastor takes it as a sign that it’s his turn to speak. It’s such a useless fact, but every little bit counts, he supposes.

“Green,” he answers.

Lucifer raises an eyebrow. “Really?” He looks Alastor over. “ Really? ”

“I answered the question,” Alastor says, ignoring him. “Next one.” 

Charlie picks another card out of Vaggie’s stack. “What is your favorite food?”

Lucifer’s fingers fidget, twisting clumsily into his shirt as he mumbles off something about family dinners and picnics, and Alastor heaves a deep, loud sigh that draws their attention to him like fishes on a hook. A grateful fish, in Charlie’s case, whose expression had been getting tighter and tighter with each new memory spilling from Lucifer’s mouth.

“What?” Vaggie asks when Alastor doesn’t immediately speak.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Alastor says, leaning his cheek into his hand and boredly walking two claws up the armrest. “I just thought you wanted us to take this class seriously, is all. But I guess that only applies to me.”

Lucifer fidgeting peters to a stop as he glares. “Oh, please. I’m taking this way more seriously than you.” 

“Are you though?” Alastor challenges with a dubious squint and a sharp cock of his head. “Because from what I’ve seen, you’re molded every one of your answers to appeal to your relationship with Charlie. I just assumed that if I had to put effort into it, you did too.” He hmphs , shrugging. “Silly me.”

Lucifer flushes. “That’s not-I-I’m answering them honestly. I’m…come on, Charlie,” he turns to her with a chuckle, like Alastor’s accusation was too ridiculous to even consider, but it's stiff and awkward. “You know me, I’m being honest. I’m just doing what you want, I’m…” it tapers off as he rolls those words back through his head. “I’m…”

Alastor raises a meaningful eyebrow and props his chin on the back of his knitted hands.

“I’m just…doing what you want.” Lucifer’s shoulders hang like a convicted felon and he looks away, rubbing hard at his forehead. Within a few seconds, he ages, looking more like a tired, old man with lines around his eyes and the weight of lived years on his soul, than the greatest and most powerful monarch of Hell. 

Across from him, Charlie winces. 

Vaggie shuffles the cards, doing everything she can to keep her eyes cast downward, like she’s not paying attention. Alastor, on the other hand, has no qualms with watching and openly studies the two with wide-eyed interest. Charlie hesitates a moment, indecision warring on her features, before she steps forward and places a hand on Lucifer’s shoulder. He stiffens, then sighs, and looks up at her.

“I know you’re trying, dad,” she says with gentle earnestness. “We’ve got a lot to catch up on and I’m…I’m so glad you’re here. Really. You and me. This hotel. It’s all I could’ve wanted. All I could’ve ever hoped for. The only thing missing, really, is mom.”

Lucifer grimaces and looks down, rubbing his arm.

“But we have plenty of time to get to know each other again,” Charlie rushes on, “and I want to get to know the real you. Not a past version of you I rarely got to see.”

Lucifer shuts his eyes, expression pinching, pained. When he opens them again, his smile is back, soft and genuine, but sad. He sets his hand on top of hers and squeezes it. “Me too,” he says, meeting her gaze with tender fondness. “I’ll…I’ll do better.”

“You’re already doing enough.” She bends to press a kiss to his temple, which he leans into.

“Now!” She lets go of his shoulder and steps back, propping her hands on her hips and returning to her normal, cheery self. “Dad, what’s your favorite food? Pancakes? Pasta? Those little sandwiches we used to eat out in the garden.” She winks at him.

Lucifer snorts. He’s still curled in on himself, but, slowly, his shoulders bloom outward. “Honestly? Those sandwiches were pretty meh. I’m not much of a peanut-butter person. Soup’s good though.”

“Oh? What kind of soup?” Vaggie asks.

Lucifer shrugs. “Any soup. Chicken-noodle, lentil, potato, French onion, tomato—if it's warm, fits in a bowl, and I can slurp it, then it's perfect.”

Then, unexpectedly, he looks at Alastor. Vaggie and Charlie do the same, and for a moment Alastor forgets that he’s supposed to be answering these questions too. 

He sighs.

“Jambalaya,” he says. His mother’s recipe, to be specific, but they don’t need to know all the details. 

Charlie’s face lights up, “Yes, great! This is great! We’re really getting the hang of this now.” She flips over the next card quickly, as if afraid that they’ll lose their momentum if they go too long between questions. As her eyes skim over the card her excitement dulls, and she glances at Alastor before reading, “Okay, uh…cats or dogs?”

Alastor snorts. He said he’d be more honest, so he will be, but did she really think he ate cats and dogs? If that were true, he would’ve eaten Husk years ago! No, he’ll stick to the regularly consumed animals, thank you very much—and yes, that includes people.

It’s a 50/50 chance they’ll agree on the same one, but his gaze still snaps to Lucifer when they say “Cats,” at the same time.

Lucifer’s expression mirrors his surprise, but there's confusion behind it, like he wasn’t expecting they would actually find something in common. Like it’s an option he hadn’t even considered. Not that Alastor can judge, he’s feeling a little unnerved too.

“Yes! Here we go! Here we go. Now we’re getting somewhere,” Vaggie cheers.

“We’re already making sooo much more progress,” Charlie agrees, bouncing on her heels.

“I guess,” Lucifer says, tearing his eyes away from Alastor, though his eyebrows remain squished together, like he’s still working out the details in his head.

“Let’s not get too excited,” Alastor advises her, flapping a hand up and down in gesture for her to settle. “Keep it for the end of class. There’s still plenty of time to be disappointed.”

“Yes, yes, right.” Charlie takes a breath and lets it back out, but there’s still a bounce in her step as she flips over the next card. “Alright, next question: what is your favorite book?”

“Rings of Passions,” Lucifer answers, and summarizes the plot of a horribly cheesy sounding erotica (that he at the last minute tries to pass off as romance when it dawns on him that what he's describing to his daughter is, essentially, porn). Charlie takes it in stride, deciding not to comment on her father’s taste in adult literature, but Alastor notices when Vaggie whispers something to Lucifer once Charlie’s back is turned and Lucifer summons the book, passing it off to her. She quickly tucks it into a bag next to the canvas, hidden between extra cardstock and notebooks.

“An In-Depth Look into the Stock Market Crash of 1929,” is Alastor’s answer. “There’s so much to be had seeing the rich and powerful crumble under the weight of their own greed,” he says with a pleasant sigh. “It may not be as colorful as Lucifer’s tastes, but I do get some pleasure out of it.”

Charlie clears her throat in reminder of her fathers “tastes” and focuses on re-shuffling the cards. Lucifer coughs into his fist and looks away, unable to look his daughter in the eye, and Vaggie’s cheeks color slightly as she kicks the bag a little farther under the table.

While it’s not a completely honest answer, it’s not untrue either. Alastor does enjoy reading about the ‘29 stock-market crash. It’s a good one when he needs a hearty laugh, but he has a feeling they’re more likely to accept that over his normal reading material, and he doesn’t care enough to waste time explaining himself. 

It works and they move on.

“What is your idea of happiness?” is the next question.

What kind of fuck-ass question is that? Is what immediately pops into Alastor’s head. The answer to the question that follows is: getting out of this blasted deal and owning my goddamned soul again , but he can’t tell them that . Too many questions. Too little explanation. Too much on the line.

He could say dissection again. He wasn’t lying about that before. He’s no professional, it’s more of a side-hobby than anything legitimate, but getting elbow deep in a person’s innards and pulling out their organs one-by-one is a past-time he’s been allowed to enjoy more in Hell than he did on Earth. Demon bodies are so similar yet so different to human bodies, and finding those differences is fascinating. It makes him wonder about his own demon biology though he can’t go digging around in his own body.

Well, he could, but it wouldn’t be as fun or insightful if he accidentally killed himself. It’s been a while since he’s had to regenerate, but it’s hard to forget the agonizing, itching, burning pain that ripped through one's body as it slowly knit itself back together.

My idea of happiness, he repeats to himself, tapping a finger against his cane. My idea of happiness.

Nothing comes to mind.

Aside from the deep, clawing, burning, desperate need to own his soul again, a white cloud hangs over his brain, empty of suggestions and ideas. He rifles deeper, searching for something, anything, and feels a twinge of frustration when nothing turns up.

Cooking, he thinks. He feels the happiest when he cooks. Or, at least, it's when he feels the calmest, but he rejects the option a second later. Cooking is too personal. It’s a window of time he’d squirreled away for himself where he could pour a glass of rye, roll up his sleeves, and get lost in the smell of broth, seasoning, and roasting meat. No therapy circles. No hopeless redemption. No soul-binding deals. No city drama and Overlord politics.

Nothing existed beyond him and the kitchen doors, and it’s the most peace he’s ever found in Hell.

No, that’s just for him. Only for him.

And Lucifer now, he grumbles to himself. 

He only just catches the tail end of Lucifer’s answer—something about a workshop? Building things?—before all of their eyes turn to him and he says the first thing that comes to mind.

“A good meal and a quiet night.” He relaxes against the arm-chair, sighing in deep content. “Ah there’s nothing like a good, bloody steak and my dear Ella to wind down after a long day.”

“Ella?” Vaggie says, tilting her head curiously. “Ella who?”

“Oh! Is she another one of your Earth friends?” Charlie asks, wide-eyed and awe-struck, likely jumping at the idea of meeting another member of his tight-knit inner circle. Mimzy hadn’t made the best impression, but Charlie adored Rosie.

Just as Alastor opens his mouth to answer, Lucifer says in a bored drone, “No, she’s a singer,” as he drags his finger up and down the armrest of the couch. His finger freezes and his eyes widen a millisecond later as he registers his fumble, and flashes a tight smile at Charlie and Vaggie when they look at him in surprise. “I-I mean, she’s a singer, right? Alastor? She sounds like a singer. You know, Lady Ella. Lady Ella ,” he spreads his hands in the air as if displaying her name in bright lights, “That’s-that’s a good stage name. Very sophisticated, if you ask me. Very sophisticated.”

Alastor forces himself to loosen the stiffness that shoots up in spine, but his hand clenches tighter and tighter around his cane with every word that follows Lucifer’s slip-up. Shut. Up. He tightens his jaw to keep from snapping at him. You’re making it worse.

And get Ella’s name out of your dirty mouth, he adds as a petty afterthought

Lucifer hadn’t brought up the night he stumbled on him in the kitchens, and Alastor definitely didn’t plan on doing so either. No one in the hotel is aware of his night cooking. Not before he moved into the old hotel, not in the six months that he lived in the old hotel, and he has no intention of letting them in on it in this new one. Lucifer is an unexpected exception, nothing more, and Alastor prefers keeping it that way.

“Ah, so you’ve heard of her,” he says brightly, going along with Lucifer’s haphazard ‘save.’ “A man of good taste. Ella Fitzgerald, the Queen of Jazz,” he throws his hands up with pizzaz. “First Lady of Song and everything a vocalist should strive to be.”

“Oh, look! You’ve got another thing in common,” Charlie beams, holding her cards close to her chest. “Where’d you hear about her dad? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you listen to jazz?”

“Oh, I, uh…I dabbled in jazz, a little,” says Lucifer, waving it off with a short cracking laugh. “You know, I mean, gotta listen to something, right? Or you get all lost in your own thoughts, haha, blegh ,” he wiggles his fingers at his head, “you know. Don’t, don’t like that. Ha ha. Ah, voices.”

“I do play Ella’s songs often,” Alastor tacks on quickly, “and anyone worth their salt would know her. I’m sure he overheard the other day while I was in the library.”

“Yep, that,” Lucifer snaps his fingers, like Alastor found the words evading his grasp, “that is it. I overheard it the other night. Uh, day. The other day. Yes.” He clasps his hands and leans back with what he probably assumes is a convincing smile. “That’s what happened.”

“Okaaaaay,” Vaggie says, looking between them. “Well, it’s nice to see how much you’ve got in common. That’s good. So, uh, next question?”

“Yep,” Lucifer says, a tad too quickly. “Yep, yep, yep. Let’s do it.”

“I could talk about Ella all day,” Alastor agrees, flapping his hand back and forth with a laugh, “It’s probably best that we move on before I really get going.”

“Alrightie, well, how about we move on to the next lesson then?” Charlie suggests, setting the cards down to grab the paper on the canvas. “I think we made some good progress with the first one, so let’s keep it there for now.”

“Good idea,” Vaggie says.

“Up next,” Charlie flips the page.

Lesson 2 1.5: Favorite Past-Times

“How do you feel about this one, Alastor?” She asks.

Alastor crinkles his nose. “I don’t know, you didn’t like what I had to say last time.”

“Dissecting carcasses isn’t a pastime,” Vaggie says, crossing her arms.

“Darling, you’re in Hell!” He sweeps his arms outward in gesture to all of ‘Hell,’ doing jazz hands. “Why, it’s a go-to for half the population!”

“That’s, uh, that’s not incorrect, ” Charlie admits slowly, wincing. “But maybe something a little less, hmmmm...bloody?”

“And here I thought this was a judgment free zone,” he sniffs, looking away.

“We’re trying to find things you have in common,” Vaggie says. She points at Lucifer, who jumps, unprepared to be suddenly staring down her finger. “Do you enjoy dissecting disgusting, half-dissolved corpses?”

“Uh…no. That would be a no from me.” He says.

“See!”

“I thought this was about us getting to know each other,” Alastor counters. “Not forcing us to have common interests.”

“We’re not going to force you to do anything,” Charlie says, waving her arms frantically. “You’re right, this is about getting to know each other. Soooo, we know you enjoy,” she hems and haws for a moment, a crinkle forming between her brows, “dissecting things. What else?”

Alastor shrugs. “Can’t say. Not much tops a good dissection.”

“Well, what about exercising?” Charlie suggests. “Or reading? Or, like…uh, hmm, what kind of shows you enjoy watching?”

“You know I don’t involve myself in that, Charlie,” he scoffs at the same time Lucifer shrugs and says, “Eh, I’m not much of a TV person.”

They look at each other.

“This is good! Keep going! Keep going!” Charlie says.

“What is it you don’t like about it?” Vaggie encourages.

“Oh, that’s simple,” Alastor chuckles, running his nail up and down the shaft of his cane. “They’re meaningless boxes of mind numbing mediocrity pretending to be something special when really it’s nothing but passionless, cheap, tasteless drabble that dares to call itself entertainment.” He doesn’t mean for it to end in a snarl, can’t help the way his voice falls into a distorted crackle, but he leans into it, anyway. He’s never hidden his disdain for modern television, and he isn’t going to start now. Reinforcing it, however, is an opportunity he’ll never pass up.

They stare at him, unblinking.

“I, uh…I can just never find anything good to watch,” Lucifer says.

Alastor sits back, only just realizing how far he’d leaned out of his seat, and smooths himself out. “Isn’t that what I said?” he asks pleasantly.

“Well…I mean, it’s still something,” Vaggie says. “Should we continue, or…”

“Next one,” Alastor says.

“Next one,” Lucifer agrees.

“Next one it is,” Charlie chirps. She flips the page.

Lesson 3: Pet Names

Alastor raises his hand. “This one’s unnecessary.”

Lucifer raises his hand as well. “Yeah, I’m with him on this one. I was only joking about the deer thing earlier.” 

“Oh good,” Alastor sighs in exaggerated relief. “Nothing was going to tear this relationship apart faster than that. If I’m getting a name of endearment, it has to be something fun! And original.” 

“En- deer -ment, you say?” Lucifer finger-guns at him. 

“Hmmm, I see why you’re divorced.” It slips out. Really , it does. Can he help it if his wit is simply too sharp and too fast? Can you really blame him when Lucifer makes it so easy? It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. Simple, fun, and it requires such little effort! 

I told Charlie I’d try, though, he reasons with himself. 

But any thought about retracting his statement vanishes when Lucifer sucks a deep breath in through his nose, presses his hands together, points them at him, and says, “You know it would be so easy to blast you to ash right now. You know that right?” 

The hairs on the back of Alastor’s neck rise and he stops himself from glancing at the stairs. Humiliation crawls back into the hovel it dug out in his stomach, bringing with it the memory of white feathers and searing red eyes. 

“Like, it wouldn’t be a problem,” Lucifer continues. “It wouldn’t be hard. One punch would do it. Just one.” 

Alastor tilts his head sharply, at a perfect 90-degree angle, breaking the bones in his neck with such a sickeningly loud SNAP that, despite living with him for over six months, Charlie winces and Vaggie touches her fingers just below the dip in her throat, like she’s refraining from rubbing her neck. Lucifer curls his lip. 

Alastor isn’t an idiot. When he pokes Lucifer, he knows he’s poking a bear. Not even a bear, he’s poking a beast. And if he pushes too hard, says something too out of line, that beast will snap its teeth and his afterlife will come to an abrupt end. 

And it would be easy, because however unassuming Lucifer looks, power crackles around him like an electric charge—subtle, but full of deadly potential. It was hard to notice at first. Alastor only felt a few pin-pricks here and there when they first met, but the more he’s around Lucifer, the more he observes him, the more he senses it. A faint thrum in the air when Alastor critiques his interior decorating. A sudden spike when Lucifer’s staring off into space and KeeKee startles him by hopping onto his lap. A warm haze when he’s laughing and talking with Charlie. 

Power thrums around him like an energy-field, adjusting its shape and intensity based on his mood. Right now, it prickles, dragging needle-like claws up Alastor’s skin that leaves an irascible rash behind. He digs his nails into his palms so he doesn’t scratch the itch. 

Even though he didn’t witness Lucifer and Adam’s fight, he still felt it. The sudden blast of heat that rippled through the air. A stench of brimstone so heavy it coated his tongue in a sour film. The sound of walls breaking and twisting metal. The ground as it shook under his feet and the pitchy twang of Adam’s guitar as he swung it around.

Niffty may have killed Adam in the end, but according to what Alastor overheard, Lucifer could’ve ended him. Would’ve, if Charlie hadn’t stopped him. Or, at the very least, beat him to a golden bloody pulp. 

Whereas Alastor lost. 

He lost to that pompous, puffed-up, over-inflated sleazy pigeon of a first man, after it’d been agreed on by the team that he’d be able to handle Adam. After he reassured Charlie, right before the battle, that he was confident in his ability to fight him, in earshot of Vaggie, Niffty, Husk, all of them. He cringes from the memory so violently his tail twitches. His nails dig into his palms.

In his silence, Lucifer smirks, and Alastor’s anger rises so quickly he tastes its acidity in the back of his throat. Baring his teeth, he leans forward, defiance snapping so fast through his neurons that his body tingles. In the face of authority, he’s never had a talent for keeping his mouth shut. 

“Then do it ,” he snarls. 

He’ll lose the fight, that’s obvious enough, but he won’t be put down like a wounded animal either. He’ll kick and bite and claw. He’ll get in as many hits before he leaves this realm and moves on to whatever’s next, even if it's just one punch.

Lucifer rises, rolling up his sleeves. “Gladly, you annoying, conceited son of a bi-”

“ Enough !” Charlie snaps. In a flash, her blonde hair slips out of its bands and whips in the surrounding air. Her eyes become two large glowing pockets of fire, and her horns rise from the sides of her head, growing into two sharp points. Like Lucifer, heat boils around her and brimstone sours the air, though it’s far less potent.

“Charlie,” Vaggie says, reaching out and softly touching her shoulder. 

Charlie’s snarl turns on her, and she immediately drops it. Vaggie grabs her hand and gives it a soft squeeze, which Charlie returns. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and as she slowly lets it out, her hair fits itself back in their bands, her horns shrink, and when her eyes open again, they’re back to normal, if significantly sadder than they were seconds ago.

“Stop,” she whispers, looking between him and Lucifer. “Just…” she rubs her temples. “Just stop.” Her shoulders deflate. “Maybe we should stop here. This isn’t working.” 

“Hey,” Vaggie says, brushing a few strands of hair out of her face, “it wasn’t, uh, too bad. We’ve been making some progress, at least. That’s something. Right?” 

Lucifer’s expression twists in guilt, and he immediately backtracks to the couch.

Alastor turns to his seat as well, having shot up to meet him face-to-face, and takes a slow, subtle breath of his own. The infection pulses and he gingerly rubs it with the tips of his fingers, swallowing back the acerbic bile rising in his throat. His back throbs, his tail twangs, and a headache slowly makes its way to the forefront of his mind. 

Ugh . He’s such a mess. A mess of aches and pains and too many sleepless nights. He needs a long, hot bath and the bloodiest, rawest steak the city’s butchers have to offer. 

His stomach takes that opportunity to remind him he still hasn’t had breakfast. Well, technically lunch now.

Shut up, Alastor tells it tiredly.

His shadow peers at him over the chair, having risen the moment he got to his feet to offer its support, and he nods at it in silent reassurance that he’s fine. It frowns, unfooled.

Whatever.

Time to get things back on track.

Clearing his throat, Alastor spins around. “Apologies, Charlie, I haven’t been keeping up my end of the bargain.” He takes his cane from his shadow and positions it in front of him, folding his hands over the microphone. “I said I’d give this class an honest try, and if nothing else, I’m a man of my word.” 

Lucifer snorts quietly, and the only reason Alastor hears what he mumbles under his breath is because his ears are tuned on him. “Doubtful.” 

He decides not to comment and tosses his cane up and catches it again, putting on a bit more spirit to bring back Charlie’s own. “So let’s continue, shall we? I don’t think nicknames are our style, so let’s just jump right into the next one.” 

“Yeah, kiddo,” Lucifer says, following Alastor’s lead. “We’ve made it this far, right?” He cracks a teasing smile. “Come on, it’d be crazy to give up now! Just when we were making so much progress.” 

“No one ended up on the stairs this time, at least,” Alastor drawls playfully, though he gives Lucifer a sharp side-eye. “Now that’s what I call improvement! Wouldn’t you say?” He doesn’t wait for Charlie to respond and does a slow spin, opening his arms to gesture around the room. “Oh, would you look at this, your hotel is already doing its job. Heaven is going to be so impressed. Very impressed, dare I say. Let’s give her a round of applause, ladies and gentleman! A round of applause for our very own, Lady Redemption!”

Whistles and applause bursts from his microphone and Alastor good-naturedly claps along with it. Vaggie looks at him in confusion but slowly does the same. 

Summoning canned applause doesn’t require a lot of magic, but the infection still throbs, as persistent as ever. It’s not nearly as bad as before, but Lucifer’s attack had riled it up. That, on top of his current little display, sits heavy in his chest, putting pressure on each inhale he takes, which isn’t too hard to mask, but it’s still annoying. 

Lucifer scowls at Alastor’s obvious showboating, but it does the trick. Charlie snorts and shakes her head a few times before looking up, waving him off. “Stop, Al, you’re just saying that. I know you don’t mean it.” 

“Oh, but I do ,” Alastor insists, leaning forward on his cane. “Darling. why else would I be here!”

Charlie shakes her head again. “Because you laugh at us. You like laughing when we fail. That’s why.” 

“And what a rib-tickling group you are,” Alastor agrees with a wink. “Why, I haven’t been this entertained since that city-wide blackout that happened months ago! Oh ho ho!” He laughs, wiping away a fake tear. “Oh, there were so many robberies.” 

Charlie rolls her eyes and waves him off again. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Sure. ” She’s smiling though, eyes sparkling in amusement as she shakes her head again. Vaggie looks between them like she has no idea what’s going on, but Charlie’s snort takes away the concerned line between her eyebrows.

Another job well-done, Alastor thinks with a self-satisfied hum as he straightens his bowtie. His entire plan hinges on Lucifer agreeing to go along with it, and if Charlie isn’t happy, then he isn't happy. A little tidbit he forgot when he tried leaving earlier—not the smartest move, he’ll admit. The whole reason he agreed to the class was to keep Charlie happy and Lucifer pacified. Or, until he was too deep into the plan to back out, at least.

He spins his cane once and twirls on his heels to go back to his seat. On the way, he catches Lucifer’s eye, who’d been watching their exchange with increasing bafflement, and raises a brow. 

Jealousy burns, not just in Lucifer’s expression, but on his face, coloring his cheeks in a golden-brown flush. The air around him buzzes, cracking off him like invisible little pop rocks. Maybe pacification isn’t exactly what Alastor is accomplishing, but what’s Lucifer going to do? Get mad at him for cheering Charlie up? Yeah. Right. That’ll be a good look.

Ignoring him, Alastor hums a jaunty tune to himself as he sinks down in the armchair. The buzz gets stronger but, as expected, Lucifer stays where he is, flushed, tense, and stewing in spite.

“Well, we made a lot of, um, progress, of sorts, today,” Charlie says, pressing her hands together. “But I think we’re all in need of a little break after this whole experience. So, let’s just go over one more lesson and then we’ll call it a day.”

“Sounds great to me,” Vaggie says, sitting on the edge of the coffee table, propped up by her arm.

“Hear, hear,” Alastor agrees.

Lucifer says nothing, just nods.

“Great!” She flips the next page and taps it with her pointing stick. “Alright, how you met. Vaggie and I—though, mostly me—already brainstormed a few ideas for you, but after our conversation upstairs, well,” she laughs awkwardly, “they may be a little biased. So, let’s just start with a clean slate. Any ideas?”

“Well, in my experience, the best lies are but shadows of the truth,” Alastor says, sharing a devilish look with his shadow who noiselessly snickers behind its hand. “So, let’s keep it as close to the original as we can.”

“Uh-huh,” Lucifer says with a monotonous drawl. He’d transitioned from spitefully stewing to glumly sulking, and sags into the couch cushions, arms crossed. “And how do we do that?”

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” Alastor says, holding up a finger matter-of-factually, which Lucifer predictably rolls his eyes at. “Let’s keep it to the first day we met. You came by so Charlie could pitch her hotel, get a meeting with Heaven, yada yada, all of that,” he waves it off, “but you and I got off on the wrong foot. We had a few disagreements here and there about…hmm…the hotel’s management, we’ll say. We stepped on each other's toes, couldn’t see eye-to-eye-” he doesn’t make the joke, but Lucifer still hears it and shoots him a warning finger, “and parted ways in the end hoping to never see each other ever again.”

“Okay,” Lucifer says, “I’m following.”

“But,” Alastor continues, “we got to know each other better in the weeks leading up to the Extermination, the one that was going to ruthlessly attack your daughter, destroy her dreams, and kill everyone she loves—you know the one—” Lucifer’s eye twitches, “—and through all that bonding we got over our rough patch, and one thing led to another, and now here we are!”

“And, uh, how did we start bonding, exactly?” Lucifer asks with a raised brow.

“Why don’t you come up with that part,” Alastor suggests. “This is supposed to be a collaboration. I’m not letting you take credit for all my hard work. I’m not that kind of partner.”

“Right, all your hard work, when Charlie was the one who—”

“What about if you guys bonded over something you have in common?” Charlie jumps in, turning before Lucifer can open his mouth again and flips through the lessons. “Liiiike, uh, TV! You both don’t like TV.”

Vaggie shrugs. “I mean, it’s something to start with, at least.”

Alastor taps his chin with his microphone. “Hmmm…you know, I don’t entirely hate that.” Oh, the look on Vox’s face when he finds out he ‘bonded’ with the king of Hell over those awful TV shows of his. It’s just the kind thing that’ll get stuck up in all his wiring. Alastor chuckles darkly. “Yes, I think that’ll do just nicely.”

“It’s better than nothing,” Lucifer shrugs. “Alright,” he sits up, stretching his arms and back long and hard, “well, we have our cover story figured out. That’s all for today, right? Are we good?”

“Yep, I think that’s all we’ll do for today,” Charlie chirps, setting the pointer stick on the table.

Vaggie plants a hand on her cocked hip, smirking. “I mean, unless you guys want to talk about love languages and PDA.”

Alastor stands up. “Ah-ha! No. I think we’ve covered our bases. Good job, all around. We really pulled through there in the end.”

“Keep it in your pants, grandpa,” Vaggie snorts. “It wasn’t anything serious. Just small ways to show affection, like hand holding or opening the doors for each other. Super easy stuff like that.”

Alastor curls his nose in disgust.

“Oh, come on, I’m not gonna bite,” says Lucifer, rolling up his sleeve. He looks up with a devilish smirk. “Unless you want me to.”

Alastor weighs the pros and cons of walloping Lucifer on the head with his own cane. That apple ought to leave a sizable bump.

Charlie waves both her hands. “It was mostly just meant to get you guys comfortable with each other, that’s all. But we don’t even have to worry about that right now. Let’s just focus on the progress we made today! We all did great work. Really, really, great work. I think we really made a breakthrough!”

“Well, as much as we could, anyway,” Vaggie says, affectionately bumping Charlie with her shoulder before bending down to grab the bag submerged under the table. She tucks her newly acquired erotica between two folders and gets to work picking up a handful of papers that had slid out.

“Well, yeah,” Charlie says, “there are a few things we still need to work on, but we have a few more days before the cook-out. We’ll just have to go over it a few more times until then.”

“Great,” Lucifer mumbles. “I-I mean great ,” he amends, giving Charlie two thumbs-up. “Yeah that is a, uh, a plan. A good plan. I’m sure that’ll do it.”

As fun as Lucifer’s constant bumbling is to watch, Alastor taps the end of his cane against the table to grab their attention. “I hate to bring it up, but there are a few more itty bitty details we need to go over. Our new residents will be trickling in soon, right?” He addresses Charlie.

“Uh, yeah. Yes. I think so. We’re still going through applications, but it’s looking very promising! We’ve got a lot of really, um, interesting people, so we’ll have a lot to work with! Which is good! There’s so much we can—”

“That’s lovely, I can’t wait to meet the new faces,” Alastor interrupts with an ebullient gesture. “But in light of me and Lucifer’s new arrangement, there will be a lot more attention on the hotel, good and bad, so try not to let any questionable characters inside, hm?”

“We let you inside,” Lucifer says as he walks by.

“I’m a special case.” Alastor says, flipping his hair.

“A nutcase, you mean.”

“I don’t suppose you’re allergic to nuts.”

“Pfft, I wish.”

“Shame.”

“You know,” Vaggie says, shuffling towards them. “With all the new guests we’re getting, you do realize you’ll have to keep it up here too right? Not just out in public?”

Lucifer whirls around. “What?!”

Yes, Alastor already figured that out. It’s not ideal, and this whole thing is becoming more and more of a pain by the hour, but, well…what other choice does he have? He’s examined all his other options, which is to say, none , and given that this infection isn’t going away soon, he needs a wall between him and anything that classifies as a threat.

Unfortunately, Lucifer is currently the sturdiest wall and the only available one at that. The only other person who might act as a deterrent is Charlie, but she’s not the most…intimidating. If she used more of her power, maybe, but her approaches are softer than what Alastor needs. Lucifer doesn’t mind throwing around his power, and it’s that kind of open display of force that’ll keep people off Alastor’s back.

“Sadly, yes,” he agrees with Vaggie. “We’re going to have to keep up appearances in the hotel.”

“So, the only time we don’t have to pretend we like each other is when we’re completely alone?” Lucifer sums up, crossing his arms. “ Great. This is going to be sooooo much fun .”

“Isn’t it?” Alastor says, pausing to pinch the red dot on his cheek as he walks past, which Lucifer swats away with a growl. “But look on the bright side! There are far less cameras in here than out there. A less likely chance they’ll catch your sad little attempts at small talk on film. How’s that for a silver-lining?”

“O- ho -kay, motherfucker,” Lucifer says. “Do you really want a repeat on the stairs, because keep talking and I’ll—”

“Actually, uh, Alastor,” Charlie interrupts, holding up a finger as she trails after him a few steps. She drops it when he turns to her, twining it with the rest of her fingers. “So, there is something me and Vaggie have been meaning to talk to you about.” She shares a look with Vaggie, who mirrors her grimace as she stuffs the last of the folders in the bag and drapes the strap over her shoulder. “You see, now that we’re getting more residents, there are certain things we’re going to have to be more slack about.”

Alastor raises an eyebrow.

“The city is pretty technologically advanced,” Vaggie picks up for her, carefully choosing her words as if trying to give it to him gently, which Alastor squints at. “A lot of people use it. So, as we get new residents, we can’t really, you know, force them not to bring that kind of stuff here.”

Oh.

Okay.

He sees where this is going.

“We’re not saying you have to use it or anything,” Charlie quickly tacks on. “And I know you’re fine with our phones, and the old TV, but, um, there’s going to be a lot more of that here now, and I just want you to be…uh…prepared, is all.”

Alastor chuckles as he walks up to her, shaking his head. “Oh, Charlie,” he says pleasantly as he swings an arm around her shoulders. “I’m well aware of the garbage that will be turning up at the hotel. The real question is, are you prepared for what you’re allowing inside?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that these little,” he wiggles his fingers, “ devices you all carry around can be accessed and viewed by the very Overlords who manufacture them. You do know that, right?”

“You mean like that TV guy?” Vaggie asks. “The one you have beef with, apparently.”

“You could say we’re not on friendly terms,” Alastor confirms, waving it off irrelevantly, jostling Charlie slightly as he does. “But I know he’d love to finally get a pair of eyes in here to keep tabs on us. He already tried once with your other, ascended, resident. What was his name again?”

“Sir Pentious was…I mean, yeah, the Vee’s wanted him to spy on us, but it’s not like they can actually do anything,” Vaggie argues.

“Agree to disagree,” Alastor turns his attention back to Charlie. “The Vee’s aren’t exactly known for minding their own business, and their business just so happens to be information. Secrets. You know, all those pretty little skeletons,” he taps Charlie’s nose three times in sync with the words, “we keep buried in the closet.”

“Well,” Charlie ducks out from under his arm, “it’s a good thing we don’t have any skeletons to hide.” She puffs out her chest. “I’ve always been honest about our mission. I’ve never lied, and neither has this hotel. We have nothing to hide.”

But I do, Alastor snarls internally. What’s not clicking?

“You may not think so,” he says, cocking a hand on his hip, “but you’d be surprised with the little nasties they tend to dig up. Ooooor,” he looks down, pretending to examine his nails, “if that doesn’t concern you, then how about all things they’ll twist in the public eye? Those who control the media control the story, you know.”

“That is a good point,” Charlie says, but pulls up her shoulders back and lifts her chin. “But, I’m sorry, this isn’t something we can help. If we put a restriction on phones, or TVs, or anything , we’ll never get any new residents. We’ll lose the ones who are interested. We’ll lose what little progress we’ve made. I just,I can’t afford that. Not right now. Not with how far we’ve already come.” She says it earnestly, deeply. “Please understand.”

Oh, he understands alright.

He understands she has absolutely no regard for privacy. For her personal space. Her private information. He understands that she’s the one who doesn’t understand the risk. She didn’t see the look in Vox’s eyes during the Overlord meeting. The glee he had for Alastor’s defeat. His fumbling excitement as he spilled it to the others. He’s lucky Vox didn’t bring the actual footage as visual evidence. Just hearing about it made Alastor’s skin turn itself inside out.

Vox’s army of black-eyed cameras will all be pointed at him, more so than they were before, and with an influx of residents it’ll be harder to monitor. Maybe if he was at full strength, it wouldn’t be a problem, but right now…right here…

“I highly recommend you think about this,” he insists, more forcefully.

“Oh please, anything they try we can handle,” Lucifer retorts, coming up to stand next to Charlie. The confident puff of his chest mirrors their interaction last night. His smirk, the way he crosses his arms, like an overly confident tree sneering at a lowly lumberman, unaware of the axe behind their back. 

Just because he chooses not to use modern technology, Alastor still understands its impact on the city, and the power the Vee’s siphon from it. However aggravating they are, they are right about one thing: reputation is important. Not only have they developed a medium that can build one's name overnight, it is also the quickest way to tear it to shreds.

Oh, without a doubt, Lucifer can take out the Vee’s if he chose to, but he can’t go around killing people he doesn’t like. The impact that would have on his public image and, in tangent, Charlie’s image would set them back months. Years, even. All this “progress” she was on about would be defunct overnight. Of course the Vee’s will jump on them the minute they have the opportunity. The only true weight Lucifer has is being the King of Hell, but outside of that single title? What? A neglectful ruler who’s never kept his contempt for his subjects a secret? A ruler who only showed up during an Extermination (meant to murder his people) to save his daughter, who, as far as Pentagram City was concerned, had made their already horrible situation even worse?

That is, if they even gave a fuck about the royal family. They’re in Hell, after all. Who cares? They hardly see Lucifer anyway, and his daughter is a regular Don Quixote. The two are laughable . What respect is there to give?

666 News already did enough damage after Charlie’s dreadful interview, but the damage the Vee’s can inflict would make that look elementary.

“I highly recommend you reconsider,” Alastor insists through his teeth.

“If you’re so scared, then just leave,” Lucifer scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know if you noticed, but we don’t need you here, pal. If you’re so worried, then go. The door is right over there,” he points over Alastor’s shoulder. “Right there. Can’t miss ‘em.”

Just the suggestion of leaving makes Alastor’s entire nervous system jolt. A bead of sweat runs down his neck and his heart gives a solid, heavy thump against his ribcage that lingers deep in the marrow of his bones. The invisible chains coiled around his soul tighten like a constricting snake, squeezing the audacity of Lucifer’s words right out of his head.

Stay, it orders him. Stay at the hotel. Stay with the princess. STAY.

The command presses down his feet, driving nails through his hooves to keep him rooted to the spot. His ankles would sooner break than allow him to take a single step towards the doors.

It’d be worth it. Hell, he’d have Niffty fetch him the butcher knife in the kitchen and he’d chop them off himself if it meant he could finally leave this place. To never spare it another thought. To never step foot inside it again. He can go back to his normal life, where the most he had to worry about was blurring Vox’s camera’s and hunting down new souls to add to his collection.

The infection drives its own nail through his diaphragm, and Alastor takes a subtle, calming breath. He stands straighter and brushes off Lucifer’s suggestion like a fleck of dust. “I already offered my services to Charlie, and unfortunately for you, I’m a sinner who sees his endeavors through,” he shrugs dismissively. “But, as her co-hotelier, and the most experienced one with the city in this room,” he gives them all a bland look, “take my word for it. Allowing Vox, or any of the Vee’s, an inch inside this hotel will not turn out well.”

Vaggie crosses her arms. “Look, whatever beef you have with this Vox guy is yours, Alastor, but we can’t force people not bring his products here. They’re going to bring laptops and TV’s, or whatever else, and we’re just going to have to deal with it.”

“They’ll be heavily restricted, of course,” Charlie quickly tacks on. “This is a place for healing, after all. There will be limitations, you know, depending on the needs of our residents, buuuuut…” she grimaces at him apologetically, “Vaggie’s right. We can’t force them out. I’m sorry.”

“And if the Vee’s, or anyone in this city want to try anything, let ‘em,” Lucifer smirks, propping himself against the back couch with his arms. “We’ll handle it.”

Alastor stares at them. Rage, anger, dread, a slop of emotions, rise all at once, only stopped by the flimsy barrier of his skin. The infection pulsates again, stronger, and his eye gives the faintest twitch. At his back the door beckons him to follow through with Lucifer's suggestion. What he wouldn’t do to go back. Before he met Lucifer. Before he knocked on Charlie’s door. Before he woke up outside the city’s boundary line.

What he wouldn’t do to go back seven years and be done with all of this.

Let me leave, he screams behind his gag. THEN LET ME LEAVE!

But he’s a trapped animal. Locked inside a cage, shackled and blind-folded, and no matter how much he rips at the chains with his teeth, the only breaking that happens is inside his mouth. He’s been back for six months and he still hasn’t made progress getting out of his deal. The blindfold had only tightened. The shackles have all but welded to his skin. With each passing day, his cage gets smaller and smaller, and all he can do is wait for the bars to crush him.

Vaggie and Charlie stand side by side as a united front and Lucifer meanders a few feet away, still leaning against the couch, but obvious in his support. Look at these three. Two fallen angels and a princess who’s been sheltered for most of her life.

What do you know about this city? He snarls in his head.

How long has Vaggie been here? Three years? She’s behind Charlie and her dream, there’s no doubt about that, but she still sees the city through the eyes of an angel. She’s been at Charlie’s side since the moment she fell, and Alastor doubts she ventured into the city on her own for a while. She hasn’t seen the guts of this monster. She’s never ventured into the darkest slums or murkiest corners, she’s always been watching from Charlie’s gilded balcony, seeing the city from above as if it’s the same as seeing the entire picture.

Charlie, at least, takes a more active interest in Pentagram City. When it comes to her intentions, she’s as open as the hole in her bleeding heart, and there’s comfort in such blatant transparency in a world of hidden agendas and ulterior motives, however infected it is by her own inexperience. She’s only just recently gotten more involved with the Sinners, after all. Four years is pocket lint on the fabric of eternity. If he had to wager a guess, he’d pin her ignorance on her father’s protective suffocation.

But Lucifer is the worst out of the three. He may have been here since Hell’s beginning, but he stopped taking an interest in the Sinners it housed long before Alastor met the wrong end of a bullet. Sure there was the occasional picture in the tabloids, a rare statement passed on to the news, but for being the infamous Devil, responsible for unleashing sin and tempting guileless human souls to wickedness, he didn’t do much.

Honestly, Alastor was a little disappointed when he first arrived. He asked questions about Lucifer, of course. Tried to gather as much information as he could about the being he’d been taught so much about in his youth, but few Sinners had even seen Lucifer, and even fewer met him face to face.

The only one who could satisfy any of Alastor's questions was Zestial, who not only has memories of the few times Lucifer got involved with the city but had also met him once. But even in his immense memory, Lucifer’s appearances were rare. Now that Alastor’s finally had the chance to meet him, and while he has a lot—and he means a lot— of opinions about him, there’s one thing he’s certain about:

Lucifer sees Hell through Heaven’s eyes.

He’s still got the mentality of an angel. An angel who sees himself as better than the sinners beneath his feet. An angel who keeps his distance because he can’t stomach getting their filth on his pristine white coat. An angel who curls his lips at the damned, disgusted by their wickedness, when he had been the first of them to sin.

He assumes he can handle anything sinners can throw at him, and maybe, physically, he can, but there is so much more at play here than he—as well as Charlie and Vaggie—realize.

For a horrifying moment, Alastor wishes Husk and Angel Dust were here. Like him, they’ve actually lived in the city. Bled, fought, killed, and survived in its streets. Angel Dust works for Valentino, that alone gives him a deeper understanding of the systems that uphold their little society. Husk had been an Overlord, and to be that, he had to be intimately acquainted with the city. They have experiences that Lucifer, Vaggie, and Charlie simply don’t.

But the moment is fleeting.

If these three act like idiots for all of Hell to see, that’s on them. If they’re happy with throwing themselves to the proverbial wolves, he’ll gladly pull up a chair and watch.

So long as they don’t expect him to put himself in the same position.

Tugging once on his coat, he steps back and gently settles his hands on top of his cane. The infection still throbs, agitated by his roiling emotions, and when he glances at Lucifer, he’s looking at his chest. The infection pulses. Lucifer’s eyes narrow.

Alastor looks away. “Fine,” he says with cool indifference, “if that’s what you’ve decided.” He spins around, automatically heading to the stairs to return to his room. His stomach grumbles. He ignores it. “But if anyone tries to record me…” he sing-songs over his shoulder.

“No hurting the residents,” Vaggie calls after him.

“Oh, who said I would,” he responds cheekily, spinning his cane. “They’ll just find that those little devices of theirs aren’t as… functional as they’d like them to be.”

Vaggie sighs. “Well, it’s nothing you haven’t done already,” she concedes. “Fine. If anyone tries recording you, you’re more than welcome to fry their phones . Not them.”

“Wonderful,” The heels of his shoes click against the hardwood as he leaves the parlor.

“We’ll pick this up again tomorrow!” Charlie adds at his back. “I think we should go over it a few more times to really make sure it sticks!”

Ears twitching, he says with cheery disposition through his teeth, “If you insist.”

He makes it to and up the stairs before she tacks anything else on, but he’s a few steps down the hall when he hears the faint scratch of scales on the carpet. Trying to be nonchalant, he glances down the hall as he turns the corner, but there’s nothing but padded carpet and a fading conversation between Charlie and Vaggie as they put away their makeshift school.

When he turns, however, he has a split-second view of a white snake hanging off the light fixture next to him before it explodes in a POOF of red, glittering smoke and suddenly Lucifer is leaning against the wall with a knavish grin.

“So, what’s with you and these Vee’s, anyway?” He asks immediately. “Friends of yours?”

“The best of,” Alastor sarkily replies and side steps him. “Obviously.”

“Alright, alright,” Lucifer says, jogging up and turning so he’s walking backward, just barely ahead, matching Alastor’s stride. “That was just a lot of anger for someone trying to act like they don’t care.” When Alastor doesn’t give him the reaction he’s obviously trying for, he continues, “You know, I kind of want to meet them now. Shake their hand. Anybody who can shove a stick that far up someone’s ass has to be worth checking out.”

Alastor takes a deep breath. “Lesson one,” he says, stopping so abruptly that Lucifer is a few steps away before he stops too. “The Vee’s are a bunch of whining, spoiled children whose idea of a good time is sitting in front of a screen all day and throwing a tantrum when things don’t go their way..”

“Yeah?” Lucifer cocks his hip, smirking. “Then why do you care so much?”

“Because,” Alastor says, taking one long step so they’re in front of each other, despite the way it makes his spine itch,  “they still hold power over this city and the currency they deal in is reputation. Not just theirs, but everyone's.” He places a hand smugly on his chest. “ I am one of the few people they have nothing on. But you,” he taps Lucifer’s chest with the tip of his microphone, “do. This hotel does. So unless you want your nonsense to be televised for all of Hell to see, I suggest keeping your wits about you whenever you’re in front of a camera, because he will be watching.”

“He?” Lucifer quirks an eyebrow. “The, uh…” he looks to the side with a squint, tapping a finger against his hip, “the TV guy, right? Vox? Is that his name? Vooox .”

“He is…especially determined.”

“Yeah, well, he’s never met me before.”

There it is again. That brazen pride, thrown around so carelessly.

“Oh, don’t be too hard on him,” Alastor coos, side-stepping him again, “he was only a few thousand years late for your last public appearance. Who can blame the poor sap?”

“Wait,” Lucifer says after him, louder, and Alastor turns his shoulders just enough to look at him. “I…” Lucifer’s eyes dart down to Alastor’s chest, where the infection still paces in agitation. “Do you…” Lucifer starts, but it turns into a huff and he looks away, finger tapping away at his hip again.

Alastor blinks, waiting.

Lucifer’s jaw tightens and the next few taps on his hip are harder than before as he digs through the carpet for whatever thought he’s trying to scramble together. He squeezes his eyes shut and when he looks at Alastor again, it’s with a crooked smile and a carefree shrug. “Well, I’m on dinner tonight,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets, “so try not to be too upset when I use your stove, m’kay? Unless you want to take a crack at it. I know you know your way around a kitchen, deerie.”

Alastor smirks, despite the way he cringes inside. “What, not so confident around a stove?" He leans down, lowering his voice to a soft croon as he tilts Lucifer’s chin up with the tip of his nail, their faces so close that his cheeks tingle from the sudden spike in Lucifer’s preponderant power. “Sounds like you need the practice, my chickadee.”

He can’t quite describe the look on Lucifer’s face. His eyes widen, just slightly, and his thick eyebrows rise, likely not expecting the faint prick of Alastor’s nails. If he felt it at all. Alastor’s seen first-hand how deceptively strong Lucifer’s body, his flesh, is. He only drew a few droplets of blood when he dug his fingers into his skin when they were on the stairs. If it were any other sinner, their hand would’ve been a mangled, torn up mess.

Alastor drags his finger away from Lucifer’s chin, digging the tip of his claw deeper, not just out of spite, but to test its durability again. His skin is warm and malleable, dipping under the pressure of Alastor’s nail like it would for any other person, but it doesn’t break. Doesn’t even scratch.

But it should, Alastor’s brain insists. In all his years, in all his experience ripping open flesh—both on Earth and in Hell—this should be enough. Blood should drip down Lucifer’s throat, painting a golden trail down the grooves of his neck and staining so much of his shirt it’d be a nightmare to wash out. That it doesn’t lodges an uncomfortable dissonance in Alastor’s gut, like a rock shoved up into his organs, heavy and unfamiliar and wrong. Curling his fingers into the safety of his palm, he straightens, turns, and is striding down the hall before Lucifer even opens his mouth.

“I’ll send my shadow down later, and if the food isn’t burnt, I’ll consider joining you all for dinner. Ta-ta then,” he waves halfheartedly over his shoulder, though he’s more focused on yanking his intestines back into place. 

“Yeah, well, whatever,” Lucifer eloquently retorts, “make your own dinner.” 

He doesn’t so much leave as his presence just disappears. Whether he portaled away or slithered off, a weight in the air; a giant, looming cloud that Alastor doesn’t see until it disperses, is suddenly gone and he sucks in a breath, somehow breathing easier. The emptiness should be comforting—still is in the sense that he finally has a moment of peace—but its vastness is so overwhelming it’s like standing on the edge of a chasm and looking down. A dizziness washes through his head and he closes his eyes, riding it out with a grimace. 

When he opens them again, his shadow is peering at him from the wall, mirroring his discomfort despite him immediately pulling his expression back up. It doesn’t look happy to be playing errand boy again, which Alastor prefers over the anxious hunch of its shoulders. He rolls his neck to get rid of any lingering tension, urging his shadow to do the same.

“We won’t be joining them,” he reassures it, having made up his mind to have a private, solo dinner long before Lucifer popped up. “We’ll make something else tonight.”

The grumble in his stomach can hold out a little longer. Better to wait until everyone is asleep and make a proper meal then endure whatever hazard Lucifer cooks up and risk any more of Charlie’s lesson plans. Besides, the infection hasn’t settled yet and the last thing he needs is another scuffle to make it worse. What the others saw on the stairs is bad enough, he doesn’t need anymore wide-eyed stares or split-second glances at his chest as they searched for signs of his glowing Achilles heel.

Niffty and Husk won’t say a word about it, but Angel Dust? Vaggie and Charlie? Lucifer? He might be able to intimidate Angel Dust into silence, but that won’t work on the other three. Vaggie’s good at keeping secrets—given her hidden past as an Exorcist—but that doesn’t mean she’ll keep his secrets. Charlie would, but her foot finds its way in her mouth far too often for him to be comfortable. And Lucifer…yeah, right. He’d sell him out for a laugh if it didn’t upset Charlie.

A sudden weariness settles over his bones and Alastor pinches the bridge of his nose. Adversity isn’t a stranger. It hasn’t been for a while, though surprisingly, they’ve been more out of touch since his arrival in Hell. But like a clingy friend he could never get rid of, it always showed up at his doorstep, making itself at home, putting its feet up on his table, and ravaging his fridge before it left with a tip of its hat, the last of his savings, and a promise to “catch up again sometime soon!” Avoiding it is impossible, the best he can do is pull out the welcome mat and wait for it to eat its fill.

But recently, it’s been less of an occasional couch-surfing grifter and more like an invasion of mold. Growing and decaying under the floorboards, waiting for the right moment to pull his feet out from under him.

But even that grants him too much freedom. He doesn’t even have room to pace his cage. He’s tied down, limbs spread, being pulled in so many directions there’s not a single part of him that can move. His joints strain in their sockets, his bones crack and pop under the pressure, his skin, flesh, and muscle stretch as they’re slowly ripped apart fiber by fiber, sinew by sinew. His orders. His contract. This infection eating him alive. Lucifer’s interference.

Now the Vee’s.

One thing after another.

Alastor takes a deep breath through his nose, inhaling lemon-scented wood polish and the too-sweet aroma of flowers from a vase nearby, but his chest is so tight all it does is add more pressure to his ribs. Though the carpet muffles his shoes, his heart falls in line with each step, clipped and abrupt, like the tick of a clock counting down his days. He takes another citrus-flavored breath that does nothing. It’s only because he’s alone that he allows himself to wrap his arms around himself. With his cane tucked in the crook of his elbow, he squeezes, gripping the soft fabric of his sleeves until the threads tear, forcefully keeping the ad nauseam pressure in his sternum from turning him into a splatter on the wall.

He forces himself to keep walking, but can’t help eyeing every dark corner. Nooks and crannies so small a camera can easily be hidden inside. It makes his skin itch. 

There may not be a lot he can do about his current situation, but if there’s one thing he can guarantee, one thing he can control, it's that Vox will not get him on camera.

Never again.