Work Text:
“Tell me when your birthday is.”
“No,” Alastor answered him, the same answer he'd given every time Lucifer had asked. And he'd asked quite a few times, having found out only recently that Alastor didn't celebrate his birthday.
Look – that as a whole wasn't too unusual for sinners. Celebrating the day you were born – when you were, in fact, as dead as a door-nail – well, it could be a bit of a sore point. And Lucifer wasn't even going to touch on those sinners who celebrated their death days – those guys were on a whole new spectrum of insanity, one he didn't want to go near.
What was weird about Alastor was that nobody even knew when his birthday was.
Nobody Lucifer had asked, anyway. That included Charlie (who he thought would know just based on the fact she seemed to know an uncomfortable amount about everyone staying at the hotel, even if that knowledge was sometimes used in endeavours that had good intentions, but – well. Roads in Hell, and all that), Niffty (who had seemed surprised at the very concept of Alastor having a birthday, as if she couldn't imagine him ever being anything other than the seven foot tall maniac that he was) – and, Hell, Lucifer had even ventured to Cannibal Town, dealt with the hungry stares and licking of lips that being an angel – albeit a fallen one – attracted, all to visit Rosie and ask if she knew.
“Oh, no sweetie,” she'd said to him, as if he was just another one of her customers and not the King of Hell, the Devil himself, Lucifer Morningstar, Heaven's most hated. Probably a bunch of other titles he didn't care to remember.
Honestly, it was pretty damn humbling, the way she treated him like a regular denizen of Hell.
He could see why she and Alastor were such good friends.
“Alastor don't talk about birthdays. Not his, at any rate. Consider it a blessing if he tells you anythin' about his life before he got down here!” she'd cackled, bustling off to deal with an argument breaking out between two of her customers that looked like fists were about to fly.
One of those fists flew through the window as Lucifer left, the blood landing perilously close to the tip of his boot.
So that left him with trying to pry the information direct from the deer-demon's mouth, and while Alastor was usually a mouthy little shit, it seemed that when this question came up he was suddenly capable of putting himself on mute.
“Why not?” Lucifer wheedled – practically whined, acting in no way like the ten thousand year old being he was supposed to be. He rolled onto his stomach, kicking his ankles up in the air as he watched Alastor from his position on their bed (their bed, what a fun thing to think, their bed).
Alastor was tinkering with some cathedral radio he'd salvaged from Hell's largest junkyard, where so many Earthly things ended up. It wasn't functional and it was missing several internal components, but Alastor was sure he could get it to work.
Lucifer had offered to fix it for him, and the glare Alastor had given him at that little suggestion was enough to make him almost physically wither.
“Does one need a reason to say 'no', sire? I do believe Charlie was giving a lesson on that just the other day. Perhaps you ought to attend,” Alastor replied waspishly, his static buzz only adding to the insectoid comparison. The dull drone of a hive ready to go to battle to defend what was most precious to them, and dammit if Lucifer didn't want to be trusted with something so valuable.
“I just... I want to celebrate you,” Lucifer tried, wondering if perhaps appealing to Alastor's ego might have him loosening his tongue. The way Alastor's ears lowered on his head, his gaze focused on the radio in front of him and his hair hanging over his face indicated he might have been a little off the mark, there.
Lucifer couldn't see his expression. Not that Alastor was super easy to read, for most people, but he'd gotten better at it. Even made notes, little observations about how when Alastor's brows furrowed together, creating that darling crease, he was either confused, worried – extremely pissed off.
Three very different emotions, and Hell help Lucifer if he picked the wrong one.
“Birthdays were never a pleasant experience, sire, and I see no need to bring it up now that I'm dead and buried, my earthly remains little more than rot. Leave it,” Alastor said quietly, his voice oddly subdued. Lucifer was touched he was admitting even that much, and silently made a mental note about how much more open Alastor was with him, now.
It had taken a long time to get even this far, and though it wasn't the same sort of openness that others might consider a display of trust, Lucifer appreciated the little beam of light shining through the crack in the door anyway.
He should probably listen. Alastor had made it quite clear that he wasn't interested in pursuing the topic, and it would be a bad idea for Lucifer to force it.
Well.
He'd never been particularly good at resisting bad ideas.
* * * * * *
Lucifer wasn't sure if it was the fact he'd been asking about Alastor's birthday more than the demon might have liked, or whether something else was getting on his nerves – but Alastor was undeniably more tetchy than usual. And that was saying a lot for a man who had a habit of breaking his own bones if somebody put a hand on him when he didn't want them to.
His usual bounce was subdued, his static a constant, irritated hiss – Lucifer was just glad he was the only one dealing with it, Alastor seemingly making every effort to appear normal (what passed for it for him, at any rate) around Charlie and the others.
No, it was only Lucifer to whom he allowed himself to snap, to grumble at, to let down the perfectly curated persona he wore on a daily basis. Lucifer should probably be flattered – and he was, when he wasn't busy wincing as Alastor made yet another cutting remark about his skills as a ruler.
“Alright, that's enough,” Lucifer said firmly – hey, he could only take being verbally abused for so long before he had to say something. Alastor's attention snapped to him, the radio he was repairing lying in pieces on Lucifer's worktable.
“If you're not going to tell me what crawled up your ass and died, then you can go sleep in your own suite. I'm not here to be your emotional punching bag,” he added, knowing he was taking a risk by pushing Alastor that far.
He was hoping Alastor's desire to stay in his – their – rooms would outweigh his reluctance to talk about what was bothering him. The sinner had made no secret of the fact he preferred sleeping with Lucifer than alone, in his own roundabout way.
He held his breath, waiting to see if his gamble was going to pay off.
“Fine,” Alastor finally snapped, his jaw clicking as he forced it to unclench long enough to bite out even that much. Regret stabbed itself into Lucifer's heart as the demon sank into the shadows, wispy threads of darkness snaking under his door. Leaving nothing but a dismantled radio and a cold side of his bed behind.
Well, shit.
Lucifer would have to write himself a reminder not to go venturing into any poker tournaments any time soon.
He frowned at the bottom of the door, as if by staring at it, Alastor would sweep back in and reform, ears hanging low as he returned to his project. His coming back enough of an apology, in his eyes.
Unfortunately, the door remained depressingly sans shadows.
If Alastor wasn't going to tell him what was wrong, and Lucifer had already exhausted all the more sensible – and less freaky – options, then he could only think of one other person who might be able to shed some light on Alastor's behaviour.
If only he could remember her name. Whimsy?
That sounded like the kind of name a sinner would pick.
* * * * * *
It all made sense, now.
Mimzy – not Whimsy – had been the right call, even if speaking to her was an exercise in restraint. He didn't know whether or not she knew about him and Alastor, but he wasn't entirely convinced it would have made a difference. He'd never had to remove a hand from his chest or subtly block somebody with his cane so many times in such a short visit.
Still – at least she'd told him what he'd wanted to know. Warned him about it, too. Told him he was lucky he didn't have a nose, because Alastor would surely bite it off if he knew Lucifer was sticking it into his business.
Not that she seemed overly bothered about sharing said business with him.
Now, all he could do was hope Alastor would come back to their rooms tonight, that his leaving in a huff the day before hadn't set the tone for how the rest of the week was going to go. He'd tried to make it clear Alastor was welcome, catching his eye across the hotel lobby or casually brushing a hand against his sleeve when he passed. The fact Alastor didn't pull away with a snarl was a good sign, even if his ears seemed perpetually twisted back – something nobody else appeared to pay all that much attention to.
The tension in his shoulders and jaw was so obvious it was giving Lucifer a headache just looking at it. And angels didn't get headaches. He really hoped Alastor would come back, and he could fix his fuck up from the night prior.
He'd dimmed the lights, sitting hopefully on his sofa. Fiddling with his own claws and trying not to fret about whether what he'd planned would make things better – or explosively worse, Alastor's subsequent rage at his presumptions costing them a hefty amount in materials when he had to rebuild the entire upper wing of the hotel.
The quiet crackle of static announced Alastor's presence even before he'd finished forming, shadows sweeping up from under the door to coalesce into a vaguely Alastor shaped blob of darkness, eventually resolving themselves into the familiar sharp features of the demon Lucifer had grown so attached to.
Lucifer swallowed, candlelight flickering on his face, making the shadows in the room dance as wildly as if Alastor was controlling them. No room destruction, yet.
That had to be promising.
“You're sitting in front of a cupcake,” Alastor stated, his words bone dry. Lucifer nodded, daring a glance up at the tall sinner, trying to see what emotions might be hidden behind that ever-present smile.
Alastor's smile was tight and pinched, something haunted swimming in the depths of those crimson eyes. The single candle in the cupcake on the table continued to flicker merrily, unaware of the tension that had sprung up over its presence.
“I am. I found out your birthday,” Lucifer admitted quietly, not daring to move.
Alastor didn't say anything for a long while. Just stared at that flickering candle, the light gleaming in his gaze. By slow increments, his ears started to drop, one millimetre at a time.
“Birthdays have never been a pleasant experience,” Alastor pointed out, repeating his words from earlier that week. Lucifer swallowed, nodding.
Mimzy hadn't told him all the details – he doubted she knew them – but she'd told him enough that he'd gathered Alastor had been opposed to celebrating his birthday even when he was alive.
“I know. Let me try and change that?” he asked, an earnest, honest request. He knew Alastor would never have appreciated some grand party, some over-the-top celebrating – but he was hoping he could do something to put his mood back on the up-and-up.
There were a lot of things the demon enjoyed and would never ask for. Lucifer patted the cushion next to him invitingly, waiting to see if Alastor was going to accept his invitation or not. In the air, a white screen suddenly appeared, an extremely old fashioned movie already playing. Alastor glanced at it, then back at Lucifer.
Finally, like a stray cat approaching food it thought might be poisoned but couldn't resist sampling, Alastor sank onto the couch next to him. Without trying to push for too much, too fast, Lucifer reached up and curled an arm over his shoulder, applying just the slightest amount of pressure.
Letting Alastor use that as the excuse he needed to sink down, kicking his shoes off as he curled his knees up and tucked his head into Lucifer's chest, all seven feet of those spindly limbs curled up tight. The tension running out of his back had Lucifer's doing the same, and he pressed a kiss to the top of Alastor's head, right between those soft ears.
He brought up one hand, waving it to blow the candle out when it seemed Alastor had no interest in doing so, and started petting down the other man's ears in a way that always made the demon sigh.
A ghost of a smile playing about his lips, Lucifer turned up the volume of the movie, warmth spreading through him at the contented hum of static filling the air. He lowered his voice, lips pressed into Alastor's hair.
“Happy birthday.”
~fin~