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The weather that was about to hit Pentagram City was the sort of thing one might see only once in their deathtimes. The kind that had Lucifer strengthening the wards around the main infrastructure of the hotel, as well as the specialised wards around everyone's quarters.
The kind that, even with the strengthened wards, he warned people off straying from those rooms and into the corridors until it had passed. Those too were warded, yes – but the brunt of his attention was localised on the private suites of those staying in the hotel.
When asked how long it might last, he grimly replied that he didn't know. The last time he'd seen a storm like this was... oh, maybe two centuries ago. Possibly a little less, because Charlie had already been born – and he'd looked over at her with a mixture of pain and nostalgia, the memory of how terrified she had been during it clearly one that brought complicated feelings to the surface of his mind.
The kind of storm that had everyone retreating to the rooms of those they were closest with – because as soon as the howling, screaming wind started, even the hardest amongst them felt a certain disquiet deep in their marrow.
The hardest amongst them – except, of course, Alastor.
Not to say he wasn't making his way to Lucifer's rooms, the last of his provisions in hand from the kitchen – the pantry had been raided quite bare, but it seemed as though nobody had wanted to touch his stash of venison jerky, and he'd taken the packet of chocolate kisses right out of Angel's overfull hands – it really was unfair, having four arms with which to pilfer things.
It was simply that when the first mournful wail echoed through the halls, even Lucifer's wards not strong enough to block out the sound of the soul storm, Alastor paused, one ear twitching. There was a scratching at the back of his mind, the animal side of him urging him to find cover – but a far more unstable part of his psyche revelled in the sound, picking out the various notes entwined in the screaming as he would pick apart a piece of music.
“Finally! Get in here!” Lucifer exclaimed, the door slamming shut behind him as soon as Alastor stepped through – and his skin prickled with the feeling of Lucifer's power sealing it closed, his wards locking into place.
Alastor blinked at the picture before him.
As he deposited his bounty on the dresser and started to unbutton his coat, his static hummed with amusement, grin stretching into something fond and infinitely patient – even if a hint of exasperation crackled through the static in his words.
“Sire. Whilst I am aware that you have wings, and a certain fondness for a small, yellow bath-toy – I was not aware you were making the transition to 'bird' quite so suddenly. Tell me – are you nesting as some sort of hitherto unknown Angelic mating ritual? Because if so, I'm afraid you're going to be sorely disappointed with what I have to tell you about the 'demons and the devil',” Alastor said with an echo of canned laughter ringing through the air, the sound muffling the ongoing screams from the storm for just a moment.
Lucifer pulled a face at him, screwing up those pretty features and poking a forked tongue from his lips as he crossed his arms. He looked quite comfortable, in truth – sitting on the floor, surrounded by blankets, pillows, cushions – infinitely more than had been present when Alastor went to the kitchen, that was certain.
Caviar mountains, champagne fountains – and, apparently, pillow forts. The wonders of Angelic power would never cease.
“If you're gonna be an asshole, then you don't get to join me in my nest,” Lucifer threatened, eyes flicking away from Alastor when a flash of lightning lit the red – though it was quickly turning something closer to black – sky outside.
Within moments, a thunderous boom echoed through the building – so loud it felt as though an enormous being had clapped giant hands directly above the hotel, rattling some of the knick-knacks displayed on Lucifer's shelves.
Against his will, Alastor's ears pinned back, teeth bared in a snarl as a squeak escaped him. Unlike the screams of the lost damned, that sound set his heart racing, jumping like a frightened rabbit against his rib cage.
Lucifer's eyes widened.
“I take it back. Join me. Please. Come here,” Lucifer murmured, his words pitched low and yet his voice somehow carrying above the clatter of stones starting to hit the roof and window. Not hailstones, no – brimstone. Nothing in Hell could ever be as simple as hail.
Two red spots appeared high on Alastor's cheekbones, a record scratch barely audible over the clattering of that sulphurous hail.
It wasn't as if he was – afraid of the thunder. It had startled him, that was all. The infernal instincts of his demonic form trying to take over, encouraging him to flee.
“I don't need to encase myself in a sea of blankets just to wait out a storm,” Alastor scoffed, returning to his abandoned task of shedding his day-clothes in favour of silk pyjamas, thinking of perhaps putting one of his records on – loudly.
“I – okay. I'm not saying you do. But I'd like your company,” Lucifer tried, his voice softer now as he attempted to cajole Alastor into the nest he'd made for himself on the rug. He patted the empty spot next to him in invitation, giving the demon a crooked smile.
Static hissed and crackled in the air, Alastor's eyes widening when another flash lit the sky – his ears pinned back in preparation, and even his permanent smile couldn't hide the grimace that passed over his face when another clap of thunder – somehow even louder than the first – rattled the windows in their frames, the lights in the room flickering, going dim.
There was a low electrical buzz and a hum, and the lights steadied once more. Alastor let out a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding.
It was just a storm.
The cracks of sound splitting the air, sounding awfully similar to gunshots – were not, in fact, the instrument of his destruction. Whatever caused the inclement weather in Hell – because he doubted it had anything to do with air pressure – that's all it was.
Weather.
“Alastor,” Lucifer said quietly, getting to his hooves and picking his way through the blankets and pillows piled on the floor. He rested his hands over Alastor's, stilling their jerky movements as he worked on getting the buttons of his shirt undone.
Alastor forced himself to look up from his half undone shirt, eyes wide and smile jagged on his face. His ears hadn't risen from the last time they'd pinned, and he hated how much like a frightened animal he must look at this moment. Humiliating, really.
His tail jumped against his belt, the instinct to find shelter worming its way through his consciousness as another streak of lightning flashed through the window, the thunder following quicker than ever on its heels. His hands jerked under Lucifer's, the man looking up at him with nothing but concern in his gaze as Alastor grit his teeth and tried to steady his breathing himself, fighting with everything he had not to give into those base impulses.
A cosmic joke. It must have been – to give him this body. Complete with a fear response he really had no use for.
It was only a few moments later that the lights went out, plunging the room into the closest thing to darkness Alastor had experienced in Hell, so far. Even at night time there was the dull, crimson glow from the sky, even if it was usually muted. But the howling, screaming storm had blocked out that light, and all he could see for a moment as his vision adjusted was the slight glow of Lucifer's eyes, still staring up at him, unwavering.
Seconds later, a fire lit in the hearth, the flames crackling merrily and casting a dim orange light over everything. Reflecting off Lucifer's pale skin – dancing in his eyes, giving them the illusion of the demonic red he wore so infrequently.
Alastor swallowed, flinching when another crack rent the air. Gritting his teeth, he didn't protest when Lucifer pulled his hand from his buttons, raising it to his lips and pressing a kiss against his curled knuckles.
“Come on. Nest with me. It's really not so bad – and no Angelic mating rituals to speak of. Promise,” Lucifer smiled softly up at him, stepping backwards and tugging Alastor in the direction of the pile of soft furnishings arranged so cosily on the rug.
Defeated, Alastor let himself be led. It was difficult to focus on maintaining his composure when every time a new crack of thunder sounded outside, his chest tightened – body forgetting how to breathe for an uncomfortably long moment as his heartbeat pounded in his flattened ears.
Before he stepped into the pile of pillows, Lucifer snapped his fingers – and Alastor's clothes vanished, replaced with a comfortable set of black pyjamas. The king himself wore only a pair of loose white trousers, bare from the waist up – as he so often chose to be during sleep.
Lucifer wasn't wrong.
It really wasn't so bad. Particularly when the man leant back against a veritable mountain of cushions, settling Alastor's head against his chest and stroking gently over pinned ears. A blanket over his shoulders calmed those infernal instincts, his body feeling sheltered enough under both the soft fabric and within the circle of Lucifer's arms.
He might have hated how needy he felt – if he hadn't known that he would inevitably be comforting Lucifer during one of his episodes, be it from the melancholia that seized him or the exhaustion that overtook him after a particularly trying event. He would be in no debt, for this.
“Let's put a film on,” Lucifer suggested, muttering the words into Alastor's slowly relaxing ears as a white screen appeared, suspended in the air. Behind them, acid rain lashed the windows, the ghostly faces of the wailing damned racing by on wind currents so strong they could be seen with the naked eye.
Lucifer chose a film that, whilst made long after Alastor's death, was at least set while he was alive. The titular character was as manipulative as they came, a proper wordsmith, and Alastor found himself enjoying his determination to swindle an entire town full of people with promises of instruments and uniforms that were never going to exist.
The thunder moved on. Terrorising a new section of Pentagram City with its aggression. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and Alastor lost interest in the film when the romantic subplot developed, completely ruining the con. He let his eyes close, shifting on Lucifer's chest so his ear was pressed up against it, listening to the familiar beat of his heart.
There were going to be repairs needed in the morning – a crash from a hallway downstairs briefly had one ear perking up, swivelling towards it – and the garden would be in absolute shambles. But that concern seemed secondary to the comforting warmth leeching into him from Lucifer's body, and soon his static settled into a dull drone, the demon still hearing the music playing in the film, but no longer quite so invested.
The storm raged on outside – but it couldn't touch this place of peace they'd created in a decidedly unpeaceful world.
Alastor huffed when the man in the movie gave up on his plans in favour of his love. He would surely never let himself get so distracted.
Lucifer pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and his close lipped smile twitched.
Ah – very well.
Perhaps a slight distraction could be permitted.
~fin~