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Before a certain obnoxious little king came into the picture, Alastor always prided himself on knowing exactly what he wanted and how he was going to get it.
It was second nature to constantly be angling at acquiring something or other. He wanted that job at the radio station? Done. Getting himself and Mimzy entry into this or that hole-in-the-wall speakeasy? Leave it to him. He had an inconvenient interaction with a lawman and needed him gone? Child’s play. Removing Alastor’s father from his and his mother’s lives was admittedly a spur of the moment decision from the mind of a prepubescent child, but even that had been a long time coming, if all were honest, and the coverup came all too easily to Alastor. It only followed that this natural bloodthirstiness persisted all the way through life and subsequently after death. He was a man in touch with his desires who did not believe in delayed or outright denied gratification, for all the talk of patience being a virtue he had heard from Mama as a boy.
And then. And then.
It was damn embarrassing, still is embarrassing, really, the way Alastor had suddenly not known himself anymore. He doesn’t like to dwell on it, would drive himself to madness if he did, but coming to terms with a sudden drastic fluctuation in his personal wants was—well, it was hell, if you could believe it, made only worse by the far too soon announcement of a new member of the Morningstar bloodline.
Thirty-year-old Alastor Facilier, thrumming with life and so prideful despite knowing so very little about anything, would be shocked into speechlessness to see him now, peering over the side of a sturdy wooden crib at the wriggling form inside. The pudgy hand that reaches out imploringly for him, shimmering with scales.
To want to cradle that little hand in his own even as the mere idea makes his skin crawl is—is—unconscionable!
A different kind of battle between warring instincts than the sort he experiences around Lucifer—a simultaneous urge to caress and to claw like a cornered animal—he feels the need to meld with this creature, as though he is an extension of himself he lost long ago, a missing piece somewhere in the center of him, how disgustingly sentimental.
Conflicted, Alastor is stuck staring dumbly at the baby’s outstretched hand for what is apparently too long, as little Clyde begins to fuss, tossing and turning at the denial of physical contact. Alastor’s smile twitches as something alarmingly like panic grips him, seeing that round face screwed up in clear distress, legs kicking erratically.
He glances at the door to the nursery, left ajar, and considers going to get Lucifer. God knows he’s better equipped to handle this kind of thing.
But the idea of leaving the newborn on his own for even a moment is so viscerally unpleasant (which he certainly does not examine, nor does he want to) that he abandons the idea without a second thought. Best not to dwell on his going soft when there are urgent matters at hand—the self-reproach can wait. Besides, he’s a fully capable adult, he can manage this on his own.
Right. How does one soothe a crying child?
His best and really only frame of reference are fuzzy memories from his life up top. In particular, Alastor hears his mother’s voice, faint and murky from time gone by, singing to him after a nasty fall or a particularly bad nightmare. Whenever she needed to distract him, whether from the pain of having his wounds dressed or from the terror of nightly visitations, she would sing in her lovely mezzo-soprano, rich and velvety just like Ella’s. Sometimes, when he was an older child, she would make him sing with her to put his mind to something else.
Hmm. It’s been a while since he thought of that.
Alastor furrows his brow, gazing thoughtfully at the unhappy boy in the crib below him. His own singing voice is hardly what he would personally consider soothing, but perhaps—
Without prompting, his mind conjures up a song he heard on a specific station yesterday—his second-favorite, trumped only by, of course, his own. It’s Lucienne Boyer, 1930. Slow and melodic, not unlike a lullaby. Relaxing enough for an adult, surely that could do the trick. Alastor hears the opening notes in his head and breathes in.
Parlez-moi d’amour
Redites-moi des choses tendres
Votre beau discours
Mon cœur n'est pas las de l'entendre
Oh, is it—perhaps it’s working? Alastor shifts closer to the crib at the way Clyde’s movements still, his head tilting up with interest at the sound of the demon’s voice. He rocks the crib to the hypnotic rhythm.
Pourvu que toujours
Vous répétiez ces mots suprêmes:
Je vous aime
The next lyrics—just as revoltingly sappy—die on his tongue the instant he spots movement out of the corner of his eye. Alastor whips his head around to stare at Lucifer standing in the doorway to the nursery. He looks—is that surprise on his face? Disbelief? Alastor supposes that’s fair. Still, his cheeks heat like a teenager’s and he tries to school his expression into something indifferent, his smile cool and sharp. How could he, the Radio Demon, allow someone to sneak up on him so easily?
“Ah, look who it is, little one,” he gets out, both surprised and rather impressed by how level he manages to make his voice sound. “The King of Hell, an eavesdropper. This behavior is hardly becoming, my dear.” He glances down at the newborn beside him, still quiet, “Can you believe this, Clyde? My, m—”
An incredibly embarrassing noise is ripped from his throat as Lucifer advances faster than light and tilts his chin up, leaving Alastor’s hands scrabbling for purchase on his upper arms as he’s kissed soundly. He digs his claws into the white-grey-black gradient of his skin, bare due to the short sleeves of the night shirt he’s wearing, how delicious, until Lucifer releases him with a gasp.
Thrown good and solidly off-kilter, Alastor blinks up at the man from where he’s sitting—although ‘up’ is a bit of a stretch, even when Alastor is sitting down they’re almost the same height—but Lucifer’s attention is quickly stolen by the baby in the crib, the little thief.
“Oh, look at you,” he coos, propping his hands on either side of the bassinet to look into it. One finger, the color of coal, strokes at a puffy red cheek, striking against grey skin much like Alastor’s own. “What a well-behaved audience. Did you like Papa’s song?”
Alastor, who had joined Lucifer in his observation of little Clyde, glances sideways at him, his expression no doubt one of incredulous outrage. “‘Papa’?”
Lucifer looks back at him and, realization dawning, smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I figured we can’t both be Dad. That would get confusing.”
“Already staked your claim on ‘Dad’, did you, cher?”
“It’s what Charlie calls me already!” Lucifer waves his hands defensively. “Look, if you don’t like it, you can pick something else.”
Alastor rolls his eyes, reaching with one arm to fiddle idly with the cane he’d left propped up against the ottoman adjacent to his. Clyde’s earlier upset seems completely resolved, thank God, his noises of distress turned into happy chirps and curious little warbles that have Lucifer all dewy-eyed.
“I suppose,” says Alastor eventually, watching that gaze turn on him and oh dear, that is far too soft a look for anyone to be giving him, he has to look away immediately, “I could accept ‘Papa’. If I must, mind you.”
So he does.
There is, in truth, a reason why Alastor and Lucifer elect to stop bringing Clyde with them to the insufferable highbrow gatherings they always seem to end up at. Even if he never does bother to tell their make-do babysitter Husker what that reason is.
Alastor learns his lesson around the time the boy is barely old enough to stand on his own two feet and say more than a few distinct words (“please” and “thank you” being among them, Alastor will be double damned if he doesn’t grill those instincts into that boy the way Mama had him, good manners are a tool in much the same way that smiles are). It’s one of Carmilla’s usual soirees—that is to say, promotions for her wares disguised as parties—but unlike usual, the guests this evening are not limited to Alastor’s fellow overlords and a few of Carmine’s favorite clientele. The warmly-lit baroque style venue is swimming with many lower-level demons, all of whom shrink away from the entrance as Alastor and the king make their way through it, small child in tow.
Even as the mass of demons diffuses across the ballroom to give them a wide berth, Lucifer looks a bit sick as he steps in closer to Alastor’s side to mumble, “Remind me why we’re here again?”
Alastor shoots him a look, in equal parts to judge him and to sweep his eyes up and down the king’s ensemble for the umpteenth time (he truly doesn’t understand why Lucifer doesn’t own more black). “I believe it was you who agreed with our darling Charlie that Ms. Carmine was an invaluable ally to the hotel and that it would be rude to reject her kind invitation?”
Personally, reflects Alastor, if Charlie truly did think that, he would’ve been more than happy to allow her to go in his place. He suspected the princess simply did not want to spend any more time than was necessary around Alastor’s coworkers, which. With the exception of Rosie, and maybe Zestial on a good day, was entirely fair, he thinks.
Still, he allows more than a hint of bitterness to tinge his voice. He did not sign up to be Charlie’s diplomat, thank you very much.
“Yeah, well,” Lucifer winces as his eyes flit around nervously, brightening only to wave at an overlord with whom Alastor is only marginally acquainted, a large pink-and-green canine—Zeesi, that was her name. “My bad, then.”
Toddling in front of them, Clyde turns to point conspicuously at the comically long and overpopulated buffet, at the head of which is—oh! What timing! It’s Rosie, looking an absolute vision in a long, flowing trumpet dress with a modest neckline and flared sleeves, the color of the finest ink. She’s speaking to someone who appears to be one of her cannibals, based on the style of their evening wear, but the moment Clyde points at her, she seems to sense that she’s being observed and looks over at them. Her jagged smile radiant, the prince’s godmother drops everything, excusing herself from the conversation she’s engaged in to sashay over.
“Alastor!” she cries as she draws near, “Oh, darling, don’t you look fantastic! You know, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: that crown really does suit you!”
“Rosie, mon trésor, speak for yourself.” Alastor grins at her, leaning forward on his cane. Noticing Clyde still pointing and gesturing excitedly as he tugs on Lucifer’s sleeve, he pitches his voice down, “Clyde, we mustn’t point. Mind your manners.”
“Auntie Rosie!” The boy protests earnestly, in a tone that suggests a substantial doubt of Alastor’s intellect. Lucifer stifles a laugh. Alastor inhales.
“Yes, but—”
“Oh come now Alastor, isn’t my nephew allowed to be happy to see me?” Rosie pulls her painted lips into an exaggerated pout before stooping to pull the boy into an embrace. Her eyes, dark as they are, somehow manage to sparkle. “Ooh, l’m so happy to see you too, mister!” She pulls back to give him a thorough looking over, oohing and aahing at his white suit and the thin circlet seated in his curly hair. “You look half a foot taller since I saw you the other week! Gentlemen, what are you feedin’ this boy? Magic beans?”
Lucifer, looking slightly less ill now that Rosie has joined them (Alastor can’t blame him, she does have that effect), scoffs, pokes Alastor in the ribs with a gloved finger. “Oh sure, like there was ever even a little bit of a chance this one’s kid would end up being anything but a carnivore, give me a break. Getting him to eat vegetables is like pulling teeth.”
The Radio Demon sighs. He is, woefully, correct. As intelligent as Alastor (quietly) finds Clyde is turning out to be, he has the palate of every other toddler to come before him, having a preference for the same three meals. Fortunately, he will still eat anything they put in front of him. Though, his habit of eating one large meal every couple of days is—vexing, to say the least.
Alastor has never once pretended to be an expert on children, but he doesn’t believe that’s what anyone remotely credible would consider normal.
Rosie’s laugh tinkles like windchimes, and she rises to her feet to kiss both of Lucifer’s cheeks, leaving Clyde clinging happily to her skirt.
“Goodness, darling, you look delightful,” she tells Lucifer. “Why don’t you wear black more often?” The king opens his mouth to reply, but Rosie has better ideas, “No, no, actually I have a better question, how come whenever Alastor brings this little man over to my neck of the woods, I never see you, hmm? If I didn’t know better, your Majesty, I’d be offended!”
Lucifer sighs at this, having the decency to look apologetic, and Alastor greatly enjoys himself just listening as Rosie and the king launch into an animated back-and-forth about the goings-on at Charlie’s hotel, thanks to its still-booming success. He’s largely silent, with respect to a couple necessary interjections about his own contributions and some juicy tidbits of gossip that Lucifer gives him an unimpressed look for divulging, but, well, dishing is a tried and true ritual in his friendship with Rosie and he’s hardly going to stop now on the basis of morals or some other equally ridiculous notion.
Rosie has a way of drawing every person she speaks to out of their shells and, King of Hell or not, Lucifer is no exception. They talk like this for what could be anywhere from a quarter of an hour to half of one, until the conversation reaches a natural lull and Alastor finally remembers to look down at his left, where there have been suspiciously few tugs on his pant legs or soft pleads for his attention.
He quickly discovers this is because Clyde is not standing next to him anymore.
Has, in fact, disappeared completely.
Well.
Shit.
On his right, Lucifer is rapidly coming to the same realization. He frowns. “Hey—where’s—”
The look on Alastor’s face when he meets his eyes apparently tells the king all he needs to know, “Oh fuck.”
Alastor grits his teeth, swiveling around to see if he can spot the boy—he’s so small, he can’t have possibly gotten that far!
But he doesn’t.
And Lucifer is already starting to hyperventilate, pupils dilating and hands shaking, and oh mother-of-pearl Alastor has to remedy this immediately before this evening becomes even more of a disaster than it was already destined to.
“I’ll find him,” he announces, then pivots. “Rosie—”
“We’ll be right here,” his friend says, calm and even-keeled even as her eyes flash with concern, bless her. She wraps an arm around Lucifer’s shoulders, firm but warm while she steers him towards the buffet, all the while ignoring or casually dismissing his indignant sounds of protest. “In the meantime, why don’t we fetch us something to eat, your Majesty? Oh, I know you angels don’t need to, but I spied this lovely apple turnover over yonder and I know how you love your branding…”
Right then. With that sorted, Alastor promptly dissolves into shadow and spills across the ballroom floor in search of a wayward prince.
He finds that such a search would be leaps and bounds easier had the event not adopted what was practically an open-door policy. Damn Carmilla and her pointless outreach initiatives. There’s so little space that he has to slither, in shadow form, underneath the feet of several patrons to get past the hubbub, although this does have one perk in that said patrons recognize who exactly is slipping past them based on silhouette alone and start to shriek bloody murder. Oh, sweet entertainment!
Eventually, after hunting through congealed globs of well-dressed demons, he finds Clyde. Would have done so faster had there not been so many fleshy obstacles, but. Alastor has other things to seethe about.
Namely, that his own absentmindedness has resulted in the wandering Clyde Morningstar being intercepted by, of all people, fucking Vox.
The TV Demon is standing in front of the small boy, dressed in his usual shades of navy, scarlet, and electric blue. He’s bent at the waist, screen bearing his phoniest as-seen-on-TV grin while he talks. Clyde is mostly turned away from Alastor, but even at this angle the very puzzled expression on his round face is perfectly visible.
Alastor is frozen in disbelief for a beat, until Vox reaches to pat the prince’s head faux-affectionately, and he sees red.
His head becomes heavier on his neck as his antlers twist up with a sickening crack. How dare he? Clyde is his, and Vox should know plenty well that Alastor doesn’t take kindly to simple-minded imbeciles encroaching on what is his, should have learned his lesson when Alastor left him and his band of idiots in the fucking dust before his—unfortunate sabbatical.
He decides then and there that the game they’ve made out of pushing each other’s buttons has gone on long enough.
All this because Alastor didn’t want to share his things with a man who had no appreciation for real self-expression, for real art?
Before he can bother to collect himself, Alastor warps over, coming out of his shadow and into a brisk walk until he’s close enough to snatch Clyde’s hand and pull him backwards, seething with a manic grin stretched painfully across his visage, “How many times do I have to tell you not to wander, boy?”
The little prince looks up at him, wide-eyed and disoriented, but before he can say anything, Vox’s smile turns malicious, oh of course he was hoping for this— “Alastor! Buddy oh friend of mine! So good to see you. Love the crown.”
Alastor bares his teeth in a snarl, finding that yes, he really is out of patience for the usually entertaining dance of pretend friendliness they perform whenever they encounter one another. “Vox! Do fuck off, my good man.”
“Woah, hey, what’s with the hostility?” The other overlord raises his hands in surrender and pouts mockingly. “Seriously, no stupid smarmy act? I was just saying hi to your little tyke here! You know he says he’s interested in music? There’s a whole realm of possibilities for someone with that kind of talent at VoxTek, I’m just saying…”
“Ha! Certainly not.” Alastor sneers. “I don’t know what you’re getting at with this, Vox, but you would do well to cut it out. Your little preoccupation has been amusing enough since I returned to air, but do not believe for a second that I will tolerate this the way I do your usual folly. Kindly stay where you belong—out of my way.”
Vox blinks, looking not unlike a particularly baffled frog, then actually guffaws. “Aw, look at you being the good parent! It’s not my fault you let the kid run off. My God, man, to think you used to be unstoppable! You’ve fallen off. I think you’ve gone soft, Mr. Big Bad Radio Demon.”
“Oh? Have I? Is that why I still feature heavily in your network’s riveting journalism?” Alastor bites back, even as the overlord’s words hit like ax blows to his pride. He tightens his mental grip on his composure, willing himself not to slip into a more bestial state as the terror of what Vox said consumes him, clamoring for control with venom spewing from his lips, “Don’t forget, Vox: I play your foolish games because your hopeless vying for superiority tickles me and because the stability of Hell’s nobility is integral to his Majesty’s will, nothing more. I will disassemble your little empire and rip you limb from bloody limb should I change my mind.” And, before it can escalate any further, which would no doubt incur Lucifer’s anger and no one wants that, least of all Lucifer, he adds, “Goodbye.”
The TV Demon readily returns his hateful scowl, left eye flashing in a technicolor nightmare. “Sure, Alastor. Catch you later. I’m sure his Majesty is missing his domesticated murderer by now, eh?”
Vox should count himself lucky that Alastor fights the urge to let go of Clyde and just lunge for the other man’s throat to rip him to pieces, instead dragging the boy with him back across the venue. Their exchange attracted the attention of several spectators, all of whom avoid eye contact with him as he stalks past.
Clyde, silent until this point, peers up at him curiously, and the lack of fear in his expression inexplicably makes the Radio Demon’s stomach twist. “Papa, who was that?”
Ugh. To think he once believed he could prevent this conversation until the boy was older.
Not to mention, the walk back to Lucifer and Rosie feels miles longer when teleportation is not an option. As they jaunt down a small flight of stairs, Alastor finally replies, “No one of any significance.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he is not important.”
Clyde frowns. “He said you was friends.”
Alastor chuckles without humor, rounding a corner. “Perhaps we were, once. Not anymore.”
“Is that why I never heard of him before?”
Hmm. “In a manner of speaking, yes, that is why.”
“Oh.” In Alastor’s periphery, he sees Clyde studying him carefully, with the kind of thoughtfulness you wouldn’t expect from a child his age. Then Lucifer and Rosie come into view, loitering in the corner of the ballroom, and Clyde rips his hand away to careen towards them, screaming “Daddy! Auntie!” and thus the interrogation concludes itself.
On autopilot, Alastor trails in his wake, but his thoughts are elsewhere.
To think you used to be unstoppable! You’ve fallen off.
I think you’ve gone soft, Mr. Big Bad Radio Demon.
The wound to his pride festers in the blackened core of him. To hear what he has been so desperately trying to avoid confronting voiced aloud, and by Vox, no less? And that specific detail makes it all the more shameful. Vox is supposed to be—insignificant, just as he said. Something to toy with when he’s bored. He was never meant to be a real problem. In fact, of the Vees, he is probably the least troubling! Like a needy, jealous, cybernetic thorn in Alastor’s side.
And yet, when he had seen the boy talking to him—
When his wannabe rival pet him—
Where had Alastor’s famous decorum gone?
Lucifer is staring at him. He’s putting effort into not showing it, but the concern is evident in the tightness of his face. While Clyde regales his godmother with the events of the last five minutes, Alastor steps in closer to speak under his breath, “I think it would behoove us to be getting on, sire.”
The king quirks an eyebrow at his tone of voice, then huffs a dry laugh. “Hey, don’t have to tell me twice. I’ve been saying that all night. What happened?”
“Who says anything happened?”
This attempt to deflect earns him an unconvinced look. “Alastor. I’m currently half-listening to our son describing a man with a ‘picture box’ for a head after the two of you were gone for a good minute, and anyway, you’re doing your ‘something happened and I’m upset about it’ voice.”
Alastor splutters with outrage, “I do not have a voice—”
“Yes, you do. But if you don’t want to talk about it here, I guess we can table it until we get back home.”
Home. Whenever did the Radio Demon find a home?
“Alastor?” Lucifer touches his arm and he nearly jumps out of his skin. The king pulls back immediately. “Woah. Sorry. Okay, let’s go. I don’t know what the hell happened with TV Guy that’s got you this jumpy, but I’m over this shitty party anyway.”
They say their goodbyes to Rosie, who frets just as cloyingly over Alastor’s apparent change in demeanor. Clyde is reluctant to leave her, as always, but he finally hops through one of Lucifer’s glittering portals after she placates him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
Back at the hotel, Lucifer puts the little prince to bed. He comes into the en suite already in pajamas as Alastor is changing out of his tux and into his own sleepwear. The king wolf-whistles from behind him while crossing to the bed. Alastor certainly doesn’t dignify that with a response aside from a look that just makes the king chortle as he flops face-first onto the needlessly huge bed.
“So,” says the king, muffled into the blankets. “What’s going on? I thought that guy didn’t bother you.”
“He doesn’t,” snarls Alastor, on impulse. The air crackles around him for a split-second before he reins himself in.
Lucifer arches a dark eyebrow at the display. “Mm. Convincing. Are you planning on standing there all night? I mean, the view’s great, don’t get me wrong, but. You know. You do need to sleep.”
Childishly, Alastor briefly considers the pros and cons of not sleeping purely out of spite.
The demon exhales sharply, foregoing a night shirt and finally stalking over to toss himself onto his side of the bed. Lucifer props himself up on one elbow to look at him, then eyes the space between them critically. “How’re you…feeling about touch right now?”
Alastor looks at him for a moment, considering—you’re going soft soft SOFT—then wordlessly outstretches an arm to allow the man to crawl closer and plaster himself to Alastor’s side. He hears a snap of fingers and the bright lights in the en suite dim to a soft, inoffensive orange.
The bedroom is quiet until, after several beats, Alastor realizes belatedly that Lucifer is waiting for him to initiate the discussion, silently tracing figure eights over his sternum without so much as a single prompt. He huffs.
“I believe I’m—” Alastor’s smile tightens into a grimace, ears flattening against his head. “Losing my edge, if you like. Going soft.”
Silence.
And then Lucifer laughs.
Hard.
It’s more of a cackle than a laugh.
Shocked, Alastor glares at him. “Is something funny?”
“Sorry, sorry,” Lucifer wheezes, not sounding at all repentant, swatting at his chest as he recovers. “Hoo. I just. Alastor. Soft? People in the street light themselves on fire to get away from you, I’ve seen it. Not to mention—and this is not an endorsement nor disapproval, so don’t go looking for either—your, ah, choice of hobbies. You know that guy just wants to get under your skin. He always does.”
Something fond and nostalgic crawls its way across Alastor’s face at the memory of a demon who, on one of his first outings with Lucifer—that is to say, one of their first voluntary excursions, before then Charlie had been trying to force them to get along by way of trust exercises and collaborative busywork—saw him coming up the sidewalk and threw himself headlong in the opposite direction before combusting spontaneously into flames.
“See?” Lucifer shrugs, then makes a face seemingly in response to the words coming out of his own mouth. “Oh God, I can’t believe this is what reassuring my…whatever-you-are is like. I wish someone would have told me I have terrible taste in men before I had the bright idea to shack up with the likes of you.”
“You knew exactly what you were getting yourself into, kindly don’t pretend otherwise, cher,” replies Alastor primly, grunting as Lucifer answers by nestling in closer. Like a rabbit trying to make a burrow. Then, “The fool did put a hand on Clyde. I suppose—hm.”
He supposes what?
He doesn’t know.
“You lost your temper for a good reason.” Lucifer cracks an eye open, newly-golden irises set in lovely crimson. “And in that case? If he ever pulls that shit again, I hope you do that and more.”
Alastor chuckles, drops a kiss into hair that looks like spun gold. “Oh, that, my dear, I can promise.”
And he can.
If there is one constant in Alastor’s apparently oscillatory nature as a creature, it’s that the Radio Demon can always promise violence.
There is nowhere Alastor feels more at peace, save for perhaps his broadcast room, than the kitchen.
His culinary skills, picked up from his mother of course, are something he’s never been modest about, nor has he been inclined to pretend to be. Although, no one seems to care about his smugness once they taste something he’s made for themselves.
Alastor would not consider himself a creative in the way that his Majesty is, but he certainly shares his reverence for creating something with his own two hands. Finds deep satisfaction in introducing the princess’ ragtag group of friends, as well as her guests, to New Orleans classics, cooked with his own unique twist.
However, Alastor is not, by any means, a baker. There is much less room for stylistic flair in baking, and he dislikes the restriction. Unfortunately, when he took up residence at the Hazbin Hotel, he apparently simultaneously made housemates out of a flock of sweet-toothed fiends with the tastebuds of children younger than his own.
Just as unfortunately, he finds it very difficult to turn down a request to play chef for a group of people. Call it Mama’s good influence.
So when, upon hearing Alastor’s description of sweet, sugar-dusted beignets, Charlie all but begs him to find time to make some—he agrees.
Whoever said Alastor isn’t well-disposed? He’s practically a glorified soul.
Ha. Truly a knee-slapper.
Clyde, now 11 (or thereabouts, and as far as demon years go who knows, the passage of time is so strange in Hell) and reaching just under Alastor’s ribs in height, is eager as ever to make himself useful and quickly declares himself the baker’s assistant. He follows Alastor around the sizable kitchen, waiting dutifully for instructions until the demon has quite enough of repeatedly bumping into him every time he turns around and makes him sit on the counter while he fetches the ingredients himself.
Evidently, Clyde has decided they’re practicing French today—of a Louisianian sort, anyway. With his legs swinging above the linoleum floor, he asks Alastor, “Have you made these before?”
He sounds, Alastor has to admit, excellent. Hearing him has Alastor feeling entirely justified (and a little smug) in making him learn the language alongside English and the obsolete systems of communication his Majesty insisted on. After all, if Lucifer gets to teach the boy dead languages, why shouldn’t Alastor teach him living ones? It’s far more practical anyway.
Going along with the decision while dumping water, sugar, and yeast into a glass bowl, he replies, “Oh, once or twice. Your grandmother liked them. I am…indifferent.” He pauses. “That means I have no strong feelings.”
“I know what ‘indifferent’ means,” Clyde says haughtily, folding his arms over his chest. Sounding just like his father. Alastor chuckles.
“Well! Do you know what ‘mix’ means?” The boy nods as Alastor moves the bowl over to the counter where he’s sitting. Alastor hands him a whisk and says, “Fantastic. Then mix—no, not like that. Move your wrist, not just your arm, you ridiculous child, you have bendable joints for a reason. Once more, with feeling—yes, like that. Good. You’ll know when to stop.”
In the meantime, Alastor works on cracking eggs into a separate bowl and beating them in with a couple drops of vanilla and a tin of evaporated milk. This will have to sit for a moment while they wait for the yeast to activate, but—oh well. It will taste fine in the end.
As Alastor stops whisking, Clyde asks, “Can we listen to music?”
Alastor lets out a pleased hum at the suggestion and gesticulates broadly with one hand; in the corner, a clunky cherry wood radio—one of Alastor’s fixer-uppers—crackles to life. Clyde taps his claws on the counter to the lively tune of “Dippermouth Blues” while the Radio Demon peers over at their first mixture to check on the state of the yeast. It’s frothy enough for his liking.
Both mixtures are added into the stand mixer alongside butter for Alastor to watch it all incorporate with a critical eye. “Get the flour and salt for me, dear.”
Clyde obliges. He needs help figuring out the fractions, but Alastor can forgive him that—the prince was certainly not born to mathematicians (Lucifer being something like a divine scientist does not count) and if Alastor could remember them, he’s sure his grades from when he was a human child would be proof enough of that claim. The flour and salt are blended in with the rest of the ingredients and then everything is set aside to chill. Clyde runs off to do his homework, while Alastor heads to his tower to work on a broadcast script and setlist, and they agree to meet back in the kitchen in two hours.
The dough looks serviceable when Alastor takes it out of the refrigerator. With the radio back on and playing Duke Ellington this time around, he’s in the middle of pouring frying oil into a pan when Clyde finally skips through the arched entryway, performing a loose tap-step as he comes. “Hey, I know this song! It’s ‘Creole Love Call’!”
Alastor glances at him with an approving nod before squinting at the frying oil. Hmm. An extra splash won’t do it any harm. Flicking his wrist to add more but not too much oil, Alastor remarks, still speaking in Louisianian French, “You’re five minutes late, boy.”
Clyde frowns and stops dancing. “I was reading!”
“If I didn’t care about when we reconvened, I wouldn’t have specified a time.” Upon discovering that they don’t have a rolling pin, Alastor summons one and offers it to the little prince, nodding at the dough sitting out on the counter. “Roll that. Not too thick, not too thin. About this much.” He demonstrates a one-fourth inch gap with his index finger and thumb.
To his credit, Clyde quickly shakes off his indignation and takes to the task with gusto. Over on the other counter, Alastor prepares a baking sheet while he rolls and cuts the chilled dough into squares at the kitchen island.
There’s a perfectly comfortable lapse of silence, until—
“Papa?”
Alastor tentatively drops the first slabs of uncooked dough into the oil with metal tongs, where they emit a satisfying sizzle. “Yes, Clyde.”
“If—if my grandmother was here, what would I call her?” When the demon looks over, Clyde is staring back at him. “It feels weird to just call her ‘my grandmother’. Wouldn’t she have a name?”
The quality of audio from the radio warps for a second.
“I—” Suddenly Alastor finds that he can’t make eye contact, so he forces himself to concentrate on overturning the slabs of dough to cook the undersides. Something unpleasant settles like a heavy stone in his gut as he turns his back. “A fair assessment. I admit, I hadn’t thought about it. But regardless, she’s not here, so it does not matter.”
Clyde hums, sounding disappointed. “You’re sure she’s not here?”
And at that Alastor does look up, eyes sharp and his tone a warning in itself, “Yes. I’m very sure.”
At the shift in energy, the boy relents, dropping his eyes. Alastor ignores a pesky twinge of guilt, breathing out a quiet sigh while he sets out the first beignets, all beautiful golden-brown, to be powdered, and then continues the batch. Though he isn’t a sweets person, the smell is wonderful and takes him right back to an apartment smack-dab in the middle of the French Quarter, just large enough for a hardworking mother and her only son.
Then he hears the whisper of fabric and suddenly Clyde simply appears leaning on the counter next to Alastor, swathed in a dissipating puff of lavender-colored smoke.
Despite his melancholy, Alastor smirks at the display. The boy is tapping into his magic at a speedier and speedier rate these days. According to Lucifer, that’s about right for a hellborn his age, even though Alastor rarely ever sees Charlie make use of her own abilities in her regular day-to-day. He wonders if she, too, experienced some sort of magical puberty Alastor’s not clued in on.
“What did you call my grandmother, again?”
And hey presto, his melancholy comes back in full force.
“Are we still on this?” Alastor conjures a shaker of powdered sugar and pointedly slides it down the length of the countertop. Clyde picks it up but doesn’t stop looking at him. Forcing the issue.
Alastor sighs. “‘Mama’. I called her ‘Mama’.”
“So…Maybe I’d call her ‘Grandmama’?” The boy looks far too focused for someone simply putting powdered sugar on a pastry. The sight is so amusing that Alastor very nearly misses what he says.
Grandmama. Once upon a time, Alastor’s mother liked to daydream aloud about having grandchildren one day. He never had the heart to tell her it wasn’t going to happen, for more reasons than just his general ambivalence towards romance and sex. And once she got sick, it never came up again.
How things change.
The ache Alastor is feeling is profound. It’s always there, always lurking just under the surface where a heart that stopped beating almost a century ago lies dormant, but it’s far less noticeable these days. Hurts less.
And Alastor can guess why.
He just doesn’t want to examine it, lest he come undone completely.
Before Alastor can open his mouth to reply, Lucifer waltzes into the kitchen, in full garb today. His hair is perfect, not a strand out of place, and his smile is blinding. To see him in a good mood, it—it’s—
“Hey, something smells great in here!” Lucifer comes over to peer over Clyde’s shoulder. “Looks great, too. May I?”
The prince considers this for a moment.
“Okay, you can have the first one, but you have to tell me if they don’t taste good, okay?” he finally replies in English, offering a piping-hot beignet to his father. Alastor clicks his tongue at the mere suggestion of them tasting anything but perfect.
Lucifer takes a large bite and makes an elaborate show out of enjoying it, rolling his eyes in pleasure. “Oh buddy, that’s incredible. You made these yourself?”
Clyde’s grin is downright wicked. “Yep!”
“Excuse you,” Alastor snaps, to a chorus of giggles. The nerve!
“Why don’t you take some of these to the staff room? I’ll bet you anything everyone would love a snack right now,” Lucifer tells Clyde. The boy perks up at the idea, and Lucifer helps him pile the desserts onto a large plate, powdering them all with a single click of his fingers and a soft ‘alakazam’—a travesty, to do anything in the kitchen with magic, but Alastor will let it go this time. The king sends the boy off to deliver the beignets, calling after him, “Don’t spill any sugar on Charlie’s carpet! And don’t forget to knock!”
As Clyde’s footsteps fade from earshot, Lucifer turns to Alastor with a lazy smile. “You smell good enough to eat. I know that’s your line, but it’s true.”
“Of the two of us, I am the one with a reputation for eating people, you’re quite right,” agrees Alastor. He places the oil-smeared pan in the sink and flips on the tap. Normally he would do this part with magic, but he just—Alastor just—
Lathering soap between his hands, he feels arms wrap around his waist. “Handsy today, are we?”
“Always,” Lucifer sighs out, ruffling the demon’s curls. The brim of his ridiculous hat digs into Alastor’s upper back. “Should I back off?”
No!
“You’re acceptable where you are,” Alastor answers indulgently. His reward is an appreciative squeeze around his middle.
He commits to giving the cast-iron pan a thorough scrubbing-down, hoping the well-practiced routine of washing dishes can be a worthy distraction from the cesspit of stormy emotions still lingering from earlier.
Even as he focuses on the foaming of the soap on his skin, it persists.
“You’re not very talkative today.” Lucifer’s voice vibrates down Alastor’s spine. He tenses at the words and of course, being flush against him, the king notices. “You okay?”
What would Alastor’s mother think if she saw him now? Her son, her ‘baby’, one of Hell’s most sadistic overlords, and with a very secure seat in the Devil’s court no less. A list of sins longer than the Mississippi, committed above and below. The father of a hellborn child conceived with the aforementioned fallen angel and, against his better judgment, something like a protector for this disaster of a hotel and its somewhat functional staff.
A murderer, a cannibal, a sadist, a monster.
A father, a partner, a host, a confidant.
He’s rarely ever cared what anyone thinks of him. His mother was the only exception for a very long time.
He doesn’t know what she would think but he does know he’ll almost definitely never get the chance to find out and the overwhelming wash of nebulous emotions that still brings up in him even a century later would be enough to knock him down, were there not a small king propped up against him.
“No,” is all Alastor says, when he finally replies. Before the king can ask, he adds, “I don’t want you to leave, Lucifer.”
“You know I have to ask.” Another squeeze. “Do you want to talk about it?”
His tone of voice suggests Lucifer is already entirely aware of what’s got Alastor uncharacteristically sullen and it makes him want to scream and scratch and gouge but most of all, it makes him want to hide. In shadow, in darkness, in a place where he cannot be seen the way he is currently being seen.
“No.”
To his credit, Lucifer is quick to drop the subject. “Okay,” he says, and then, hesitantly, cheek pressed against Alastor’s shoulder blade, “I love you.”
Alastor turns around in the other man’s arms and bends to kiss him, a soft press of his mouth to Lucifer’s with no expectations and no motive other than his own desire to touch him. And isn’t that in itself a novelty?
When he finally relinquishes Lucifer, he takes a look around the kitchen at the flour coating the countertop and the oil sitting out and the rolling pin still caked in excess dough and says, “If you love me so much, why don’t you help me clean up this mess?”
So they clean up together.
Alastor’s mother never tolerated a dirty house.
Alastor is almost giddy as he paces around his tower. He’s in the middle of a session, Billie Holiday’s voice lilting through the air from his setup, broadcast to all the denizens of Hell—those who still appreciate the art of Alastor’s chosen medium, anyway. The song is almost over, which means it’s about time for the Radio Demon to hatch his master plan.
Different from his usual style, it’s nothing nefarious. Just a little surprise that he’s taken great pains to keep from being spoiled.
Niffty is, after all, just as much of a rat as the vermin she prides herself on eliminating.
As the song draws to a close, Alastor meanders back towards his switchboard, propping his hands up to lean over the microphone. With a flourish, the “on air” sign illuminates.
“That was the lovely Ms. Holiday, folks, singing ‘When You’re Smiling’. Recorded a bit after my time in 1938, but you know me, I keep up!” Alastor launches into his usual patter as he shuffles his discs around, finding one of the latest additions to his collection, still brand new, reflecting the red lights off its shiny surface. “Oh listeners, you know I love to kid. But while we’re on the subject of keeping with the times, I would like to deviate from our usual programming today to play something, oh, a little more fresh. I know, I know, you’re here for the classics, but stay with me! I would never do my loyal listeners wrong.”
Smiling broadly, he starts to queue up the new disc as he continues, “Our next song came out just last month, you see. Now, usually I can’t stand new music, but I admit, this record is winning me over! Though, I must warn you, I am a bit biased.”
He adjusts a knob until the gain is to his liking, far more suitable for the crisp and clean sound of this modern music. “This song, dear listeners, was written and recorded by Clyde Morningstar. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? I’d like to wish his Highness a happy birthday this broadcast, and I hope you’ll join me in sending him good wishes.”
He waves a hand to kill the “on air” light. The opening bars of “Speak of the Devil” begin to play, heavy bass and brassy sax emanating from his speakers.
Wait for it.
Alastor grins wide at the sound of footsteps thundering up the stairs to his tower. He braces himself. The door slams open, and Alastor turns around just in time to be practically tackled.
Clyde all but crushes his father in his arms. He’s so tall now, the top of his head reaching just under Alastor’s chin, and his face has started to look like that of a young man’s rather than a little boy. Almost an adult. Timider now, less boisterous, but still an unstoppable force and an immovable object wrapped into one. His glasses knocked askew, the prince grins up at him, black-and-blond curls in disarray and his already-red cheeks flushed impossibly brighter.
And well—
Alastor was condemned to the Pride ring for a reason.
“Happy birthday, Clyde.”