Chapter Text
The faint hum of voices filtered through the walls of the rebuilt Hazbin Hotel, blending seamlessly with the ever-present murmur of demonic chatter. The hotel, an ambitious beacon of redemption amidst Hell's chaos, had risen anew, its foundation standing firm against the disorder outside. However, the same could not be said for its eclectic occupants, whose personal battles often mirrored the infernal realm they called home. Since Lucifer Morningstar himself had taken up temporary residence at the hotel, the atmosphere had grown… complicated.
“You’re in my seat.” Lucifer’s voice was smooth, yet sharp. The air around him seemed to shimmer with restrained power as his crimson eyes locked onto Alastor, who lounged confidently in a high-backed chair. The Radiodemon’s smirk deepened as he twirled his microphone around his fingers, exuding an air of defiant amusement.
“Oh, forgive me,” Alastor replied with a saccharine tone that dripped with mockery, his words hanging in the air like a taunt. He made no move to vacate the seat. “I didn’t realize it was reserved for royalty. Shall I grovel too, or will a simple bow suffice?”
The two demons locked eyes, the air between them thick with tension, a silent clash of egos that seemed to ripple through the room. Then, with an exaggerated flourish, Alastor reached forward and nudged Lucifer’s coffee cup—just enough to spill a few drops, the dark liquid seeping out of the cup like a tiny rebellion.
Lucifer’s smile tightened, his aura darkening ever so slightly. “Childish as ever, I see.” His voice carried the weight of both disapproval and the faintest edge of amusement, as though he were addressing a mischievous pet.
“Only because I have such a stellar audience,” Alastor shot back, his grin widening into something that bordered on manic delight. The glint in his eyes hinted at an endless well of mischief, his confidence unwavering even under Lucifer’s piercing gaze.
The room seemed to hold its breath, the clash of their personalities a spectacle in itself. Despite the playful veneer of their exchange, an undercurrent of power and pride hummed beneath their words, a reminder of the formidable beings they were.
The squabble might have escalated further, but a sharp, nervous laugh cut through the charged atmosphere, diffusing it like a ray of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Charlie stood in the doorway, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, the warmth of her smile struggling to mask her unease.
“Good morning! Isn’t it a… lovely day?” she greeted, her voice pitched slightly higher than usual, a hopeful lilt that seemed to plead for peace. Her eyes darted between her father and the Radio Demon, both of whom had turned their attention to her with unnerving synchronicity, like predators momentarily distracted by something unexpected.
Lucifer’s sharp features softened almost instantly, a rare tenderness crossing his face. “Good morning, Char Char,” he said, his tone as smooth as silk, betraying none of the tension from moments before.
“Morning, darling!” Alastor chimed in with exaggerated cheer, tipping his hat with a flourish that bordered on theatrical. “Your father and I were just… exchanging pleasantries,” he added, his grin widening, clearly reveling in his mischief.
Charlie’s smile faltered slightly, a wry expression replacing her forced cheer. “I can see that,” she said dryly, stepping fully into the room with a purposeful air. Her tail flicked anxiously behind her, betraying her inner turmoil. “Can you two please try to get along? Just for one day? Is that too much to ask?”
Lucifer raised a brow, the faintest trace of indignation glimmering in his crimson eyes. “I don’t believe I’m the problem here,” he replied smoothly, his tone laced with a touch of wounded pride.
“Oh, of course not,” Alastor interjected with mock sincerity, leaning back dramatically in the high-backed chair. “The great “ God of this Age” , incapable of fault. How utterly ridiculous of me to suggest otherwise.”
Charlie let out a sigh, a mix of exasperation and determination. She clapped her hands sharply, the sound echoing like a gavel striking order into the room. “Enough!” she declared, her voice firm and resolute. “Dad, can I talk to you for a minute? In private?”
Both demons paused, their gazes lingering on her as the authority in her voice cut through the tension like a knife. For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, the weight of her request settling heavily between them. Lucifer straightened, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face, while Alastor gave an exaggerated shrug, the twinkle of amusement in his eyes hinting at a reluctant respect.
“Of course, kiddo,” Lucifer finally said, his tone as composed as ever. He gestured toward the door with a graceful sweep of his hand, his crimson gaze softening as he turned his full attention to his daughter.
Lucifer hesitated, his crimson eyes flicking toward Alastor, who, with exaggerated theatrics, mimed zipping his mouth shut and tossing away the imaginary key. Suppressing a sigh of exasperation, Lucifer finally relented, following Charlie out of the room and into the relative sanctuary of her office.
Charlie shut the door behind them with a soft click, turning to face her father. Her expression was unusually stern, her eyes steady and resolute. “Dad, you have to make a truce with Alastor.”
Lucifer’s features immediately tightened, his brow furrowing in displeasure. “A truce?” he repeated, as though the word itself were an affront.
“Yes,” she said firmly, her tone brooking no argument. “You two have to stop fighting. It’s making everyone else in a bad mood. The last thing this hotel needs is more stress, especially after everything we’ve been through.”
“Charlie,” Lucifer began, his voice dripping with feigned innocence, “I’m merely responding to his provocations. Surely you don’t expect me to endure his insufferable antics in silence?”
Charlie sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of her frustration. “Dad, I’m not asking for silence. I’m asking for effort. For me. Please, just try to make peace with him. This hotel is my dream, and it’s too important for petty rivalries. I know it won’t be easy, but you’re here to support me. Both of you are. I need you to at least pretend to get along.”
Lucifer leaned back in the chair she had motioned him toward, crossing one leg over the other with calculated grace. His gaze softened slightly, a flicker of fatherly affection cutting through his usual dramatic veneer. “For you, my dear,” he said at last, his voice smooth but tinged with reluctant acceptance, “I’ll consider it.”
Charlie’s shoulders relaxed, her stern expression giving way to a hopeful smile. “That’s all I’m asking. Thank you, Dad.”
As Lucifer rose from the chair, his movements fluid and deliberate, he allowed a hint of his trademark theatricality to return. He swept out of the office with a flourish, his coat billowing behind him like a cape. But as he strode down the hallway, his thoughts were less flamboyant.
A truce with Alastor? He mulled over the idea, his sharp mind already working through the possibilities. This would take more than mere restraint; it would take finesse, a masterstroke that would let him retain the upper hand while appearing magnanimous. Yes, it would be a game of wit and cunning. But where to begin?.
Lucifer strolled through the hotel's halls, his hands clasped behind his back, a faint smirk curling his lips. The faint strains of Alastor's humming drifted from the kitchen—some obscure jazz melody, low and haunting, that transported Lucifer to a time even he barely remembered. It was fascinating, really. For all his irritating quirks, the Radio Demon clung to his mortal roots with a fervor Lucifer hadn’t seen in millennia. The music, the obsession with radio, the charming cadence of his voice—it was like watching a bygone era personified, a living relic of humanity's fleeting moments.
And therein lay the solution to Charlie’s little request. If he was going to make a “truce” with Alastor—at least in Charlie’s eyes—it needed to be clever. Effortless. Something that would strike just the right chord, both literally and metaphorically.
Lucifer’s mind wandered as his polished shoes clicked rhythmically against the marble floor. Truces were hardly new to him; they were as old as war itself, as inevitable as the ebb and flow of power. He recalled the first truce he had witnessed between mortal kings, a hesitant handshake sealed over a feast of roast boar and spiced wine. He remembered the grandeur of peace treaties inked on parchment, where every flourish of the pen carried the weight of nations. Then there were the quieter truces—the whispered bargains in candlelit chambers, the unspoken agreements forged in shared glances across battlefields.
History had taught him that truces often came at a cost, whether through lavish gifts, strategic marriages, or carefully crafted illusions of goodwill. Even in Hell, truces were not alien, though they were fleeting at best. Demons bartered alliances over souls, treasures, or promises as fragile as cobwebs, destined to fray at the slightest provocation. But this one, this truce with Alastor, would require a more personal touch. Something… meaningful.
His mind wandered to his countless possessions, a sea of treasures collected across millennia, each item imbued with memories of his dominion. Then, it struck him: the vinyl collection. A masterpiece of mortal history, carefully curated and lovingly preserved, untouched by time. Thousands of records spanning decades of music—the rise and fall of jazz, the golden age of radio, the symphonies that echoed in gilded concert halls. Alastor, for all his smugness and showmanship, would undoubtedly find it irresistible.
Lucifer chuckled to himself, his crimson eyes glinting with amusement as he adjusted the lapel of his white-and-red suit. The perfect blend of regal authority and playful mischief. “Ah, yes, truce by bribery,” he mused aloud, the faintest edge of irony lacing his voice. “Not the most original tactic, but certainly effective. It worked for mortal monarchs, emperors… and so many of their mistresses.”
He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, his mind painting the image of Alastor’s expression when presented with a gift that tied so perfectly to his mortal past. It would be a truce on Lucifer’s terms—calculated, charming, and, most importantly, a subtle reminder of who held the upper hand. After all, truces were not about equality; they were about leverage, and Lucifer Morningstar was nothing if not a master of the game.
As he turned the corner, a sly smile played on Lucifer’s lips as he thought of Charlie, her hopeful eyes pleading with him to “try.” For her, he would. But it would be a truce that even the Radio Demon wouldn’t see coming. And that, Lucifer thought with satisfaction, was the best kind of truce of all.
With a flick of his wrist, a portal materialized before him, swirling in shades of shimmering gold and humming with the raw energy of his immense power. The act was as effortless as breathing—a small display of the dominion he wielded. A quick trip to his palace lay ahead, no more than a moment’s inconvenience, yet it carried a flicker of something more. The thought of revisiting his grand archives stirred a rare, almost indulgent sense of nostalgia. How long had it been since he allowed himself to revel in the relics of mortal ingenuity that so often captivated him?
The portal deposited Lucifer with his signature grace into the grand halls of his palace. The air embraced him like an old confidant, heavy with the scent of brimstone, apple and aged mahogany, layered with faint whispers of ancient spells and the distant crackle of unseen fires. The palace itself was a masterpiece of contradiction: its vast, ornate architecture exuded regal opulence, yet beneath its polished veneer thrived a quiet chaos—wild, untamed, and alive in its very foundation. It was, in every way, a reflection of its ruler.
Ahead loomed the sprawling east wing, where treasures beyond mortal comprehension lay hidden. Among them, however, was a collection Lucifer held particularly dear. It was not just a cache of objects; it was a testament to his enduring admiration for humanity’s creativity—a tribute to the fleeting brilliance they so often overlooked in themselves.
As he neared the alcove housing his vinyl records, Lucifer allowed himself a rare moment of reverence. Here, carefully preserved, was the essence of human artistry. Each piece on the endless shelves bore witness to the ingenuity, passion, and sheer determination of mortal souls. From the fragile phonograph cylinders of the late 19th century to the polished vinyl records of modern times, these artifacts told the story of humanity’s relentless pursuit of beauty, even in their impermanence.
His fingers traced the spines of the records, lingering on the smooth surfaces, as if touching the echoes of time itself. This collection was not born out of idle curiosity but from a profound love for what humans could create. Their ability to capture raw emotion and spin it into sound, to weave stories into melody, was nothing short of miraculous. For all their flaws, mortals possessed a spark—a flicker of divinity in their creativity—that even he, the Devil, could not deny. In their art, he saw their resilience, their joy, and even their sorrow. It was a reminder of their imperfection and yet their boundless potential.
Lucifer’s crimson eyes softened as he paused, a faint smile tugging at his lips. This collection was not just a hobby; it was a monument to humanity’s soul. For all his power, all his millennia of existence, he found himself drawn to their world again and again, captivated by the ways they defied their limits through art. They created not to survive, but to express, to connect, and to transcend. And that, more than anything, was what he admired most. It was a shame that only the worst of humanity would come to his kingdom, because good humans seemed incredible to him.
Sliding open the glass cabinet, Lucifer’s fingers traced the spines of the records with deliberate care, the faint crinkle of aged paper sleeves like whispers of history. Each touch was a communion with the past, a connection to the fragile brilliance of humanity that he found endlessly fascinating. His hand paused on a particular record, pulling it free with an elegant motion. Louis Armstrong and His Hot Five – “Heebie Jeebies.” A sly smile curved his lips.
“The birth of scat singing,” he murmured, his voice carrying a rare note of genuine admiration. “Revolutionary for its time, and still unmatched in charm. A perfect mix of spontaneity and innovation.” He set it aside, already imagining Alastor’s reaction. The Radio Demon’s deep-seated love for Dixieland jazz would make this selection irresistible.
His gaze swept the shelves, alighting next on Jelly Roll Morton – “The King of Jazz.” Sliding the record from its slot, he admired the intricate black-and-gold artwork, a relic of a bygone era. “Morton, ever the braggart,” Lucifer said, his voice tinged with amusement. “Claiming to have invented jazz itself. Bold, arrogant—but undeniably influential. Alastor would recognize this as a mirror of his own self-assured beginnings.”
He moved deeper into the collection, the dim light glinting off the glossy surfaces of the records. Familiar titles passed beneath his fingers before he stopped on a true gem: Bix Beiderbecke – “At the Jazz Band Ball.” The rare pressing gleamed like a treasure unearthed from the depths of time. Lucifer held it aloft, his crimson eyes gleaming with intrigue.
“Ah, Bix,” he mused. “The golden prodigy. A sound like no other, his cornet sang of something beyond this mortal plane. Brilliance born of torment—a tale Alastor would surely admire.”
The records piled higher, each choice a deliberate strike of genius. Sidney Bechet’s “Petite Fleur” caught his discerning eye, its haunting soprano saxophone melody immortalized within its grooves. Lucifer chuckled softly, a low, velvety sound that resonated through the alcove.
“Bechet,” he said, lifting the record. “Unpredictable. Chaotic. A force of nature. Alastor would see in him the fire that blazed within his own mortal heart.”
Still, Lucifer felt the need for one final piece—a masterpiece to seal the truce. Something rare, weighty, a jewel among gems. His fingers brushed against a thick, leather-bound box set, and he pulled it free with care. The golden lettering glinted as he read the title: “The Original Dixieland Jazz Band – The Complete Recordings .”
He opened the box gingerly, the soft glow of the records inside framed by golden silk sleeves. The scent of aged vinyl mingled with that of ancient magic, an intoxicating reminder of the time when jazz first captured the hearts of mortals. “The very genesis of jazz,” he murmured, his voice laced with reverence. “Raw, unrefined, yet the foundation of everything that followed. A cornerstone of human brilliance. Even Alastor, insufferable as he is, could not deny the power of this.”
With his selections complete, Lucifer stepped back to admire the stack of records, each one a monument to human creativity. Together, they told a story of evolution, passion, and the pursuit of art for art’s sake—a chronicle of fleeting lives leaving indelible marks on eternity.
He closed the cabinet with a soft click, the motion as precise and deliberate as every choice he’d made. Straightening his suit and brushing an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder, Lucifer tucked the records under his arm. The air around him shimmered as he conjured a portal, the swirling golden light crackling with energy.
As he stepped into the portal, a sly smirk graced his lips. “Let’s see how much your pride can endure, dear Alastor,” he murmured, his voice a blend of mischief and triumph. “A truce spoken through the language of jazz—delightfully poetic, wouldn’t you agree?”
With that, he vanished into the light, leaving the grand halls of his palace silent once more.
The next morning, Lucifer made his way to the kitchen with deliberate precision, the polished soles of his shoes clicking softly against the cool marble floor. The scent of freshly brewed coffee permeated the air, dark and inviting, mingling with the faint strains of an old jazz tune that seemed to hang in the room like a ghost from another time. Alastor stood at the counter, his movements precise and deliberate as he brewed the pot. The hum of his melody was hauntingly beautiful, each note reverberating with a melancholic charm that evoked images of smoke-filled speakeasies and dimly lit stages.
Lucifer lingered in the doorway for a moment, his sharp crimson eyes taking in the scene. The Radio Demon’s presence was almost magnetic, his every gesture exuding a theatrical elegance. It wasn’t often that Lucifer Morningstar found himself needing to muster resolve, but this particular morning demanded it. He smoothed the lapels of his vest, his dark fingers adjusting the knot of his tie with meticulous care. A slow, measured breath escaped him before he stepped forward, his usual aura of confidence firmly in place.
“Good morning, Bambi,” he greeted, his voice smooth as silk, laced with an air of practiced nonchalance.
Alastor glanced over his shoulder, his polite yet pointed smile curling with the precision of a blade. “Ah, if it isn’t our illustrious King,” he quipped, his tone as honeyed as it was sharp. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your regal presence in my kitchen this fine morning?”
Lucifer’s lips twitched, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at the deliberate provocation. Instead, he took a few steps closer, his stride unhurried but deliberate. “This is not your kitchen, Alastor,” he said, his voice even, though a hint of amusement danced at the edge of his tone. “It belongs to the hotel, which, as you know, belongs to my daughter.”
Alastor turned slightly, his hands moving with the same elegant rhythm as his stirring, the spoon in his grasp an extension of his theatricality. “Semantics,” he replied breezily, his smile widening. “But do continue. What brings you to this humble corner of the hotel this morning? Surely not the coffee, although I dare say it’s the best you’ll find in Hell.” Lucifer would never admit it, but among the select few—Charlie included—who had been fortunate enough to taste the coffee Alastor brewed, the consensus was always the same: it was nothing short of extraordinary.
Lucifer came to a halt a few feet from the counter, his presence casting a little shadow that seemed to ripple across the polished surface. He tilted his head slightly, the faintest glimmer of something softer breaking through his usually imperious demeanor. “Exactly, that’s not why I’m here,” he said, his tone quieter now, more deliberate.
Alastor raised a brow, his curiosity piqued despite himself. “Oh?” he drawled, his stirring slowing to a stop. He turned fully, resting one hand lightly on the counter, his crimson eyes gleaming with a mix of intrigue and mischief. “Do tell, Sire. You’ve certainly captured my attention.”
Lucifer clasped his hands behind his back, his posture a picture of calculated composure. Every detail of his demeanor was deliberate, from the measured tone of his voice to the faint, knowing smile that played at his lips. “Charlie spoke to me about how the two of us… coexisting more harmoniously would benefit the hotel—and her,” he began, his voice carrying an edge of restraint. “It’s clear that the tension between us has been disruptive. And while I find you insufferable—” he allowed the faintest glint of amusement to flicker in his crimson eyes, “—I am willing to put that aside for her sake. For the sake of the hotel.”
Alastor turned his head slightly, one brow arching with theatrical precision. His smile remained in place, a polite yet pointed mask that hinted at his skepticism. “How noble of you,” he drawled, his tone dripping with mockery. “But forgive me if I’m… unconvinced. You expect me to believe that the Old Serpent himself is extending an olive branch? Pardon my lack of enthusiasm, but such gestures tend to come with thorns.”
Lucifer’s smile didn’t waver, though the faintest crack of impatience flickered beneath his polished exterior. “Believe it or not, Alastor,” he said evenly, “I am capable of setting aside personal grievances when it serves a greater purpose.”
Alastor chuckled softly, the sound as smooth and unsettling as a purr. Turning his attention back to the coffee pot, he replied, “As long as you don’t meddle in my affairs or annoy me unnecessarily, we’ve no reason to trouble each other at all. I’ll respect your space if you respect mine. Simple as that.”
Lucifer’s smirk widened, the faintest hint of mischief glinting in his gaze. “You’re right—it is simple,” he agreed. “But a truce requires more than mere words, doesn’t it?”
Alastor turned again, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly, curiosity breaking through his bemusement. “Oh?” he said, the word laced with both challenge and intrigue.
Before Alastor could utter another word, Lucifer raised a hand with a flourish, the air shimmering around him. In an instant, a stack of pristine vinyl records appeared on the kitchen table, their aged artistry glowing faintly under the soft morning light. The leather-bound spines and intricate sleeve designs radiated a quiet reverence, each one a testament to history, creativity, and human ingenuity.
“I brought you these,” Lucifer said smoothly, stepping aside with the grace of a showman revealing his pièce de résistance. “A symbol of peace, if you will.”
Alastor froze, the smooth mask of his usual demeanor flickering ever so slightly. His sharp crimson eyes darted toward the stack on the table, his unnatural grin widening, stretched to the point of unease. The gesture was so unexpected, so out of character for Lucifer, that it left him momentarily unmoored. Suspicion mingled with disbelief as he forced an airy chuckle. “Oh, I see,” he said lightly, his voice tinged with false amusement. “This must be one of your little jokes.”
Lucifer stood unfazed, his arms crossing with a casual grace. The smirk that had been etched on his face softened into something more sincere. “No joke,” he said simply, his tone carrying an uncharacteristic note of earnestness. He gestured toward the table. “Go ahead—look.”
Alastor approached cautiously, each step deliberate, as though the records might transform into something sinister under his gaze. Standing before them, he hesitated, his gloved hand hovering in the air, the faintest tremor betraying his uncertainty. Finally, he picked up the first sleeve: Louis Armstrong and His Hot Five – “Heebie Jeebies.” The ever-present grin changed to a more thoughtful smile, and for the briefest of moments, genuine surprise flickered in his eyes.
“Oh,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual, the single word carrying the weight of his astonishment. He turned the record in his hands, studying the sleeve with a reverence that seemed almost out of place for the boisterous Radio Demon. Setting it aside with careful precision, he reached for another: Jelly Roll Morton – “The King of Jazz.” The rare gold-and-black artwork shimmered faintly under the warm kitchen light, its vintage design a testament to an era long past. Alastor’s gloved fingers ran over the intricate details as if they might fade under anything less than the utmost care.
And then another: Bix Beiderbecke – “At the Jazz Band Ball.” His fingers lingered on the sleeve, tracing its edges as though verifying its authenticity. The room seemed to hold its breath, the usual hum of tension between the two demons replaced by an almost sacred silence.
“These are…” Alastor began, his voice catching. The usual flourish and bravado were absent, replaced by something quieter, something deeper. “Where did you even find these?”
Leaning casually against the counter, Lucifer watched him with a faint smirk, his satisfaction evident but not overplayed. “I have my resources,” he replied smoothly, his tone low and measured, as if sharing a secret. He gestured lazily to the records.
For a moment, the kitchen was steeped in silence, broken only by the faint, crackling static of the radio in the background. Alastor’s hand lingered on the box set: “The Original Dixieland Jazz Band – The Complete Recordings.” His grin softened, smaller but no less significant. “The originals,” he murmured, his tone carrying a rare note of genuine appreciation. “Truly, you’ve been busy.”
Lucifer’s posture remained relaxed, though his crimson eyes gleamed with satisfaction. His tone was light, almost playful, but the gravity of his words wasn’t lost. “Consider it a gesture of good faith. A start, if you will.”
Alastor’s gaze flicked up, meeting Lucifer’s with an expression that teetered on the edge of amusement and something more elusive—something almost genuine. “A start, hmm?” he mused, his fingers brushing the records one last time before setting them down with a deliberate flourish. Folding his arms, he tilted his head, his sharp grin returning with a subtle edge. “Well, well, Sire. Perhaps you’re not entirely devoid of charm after all.”
Lucifer inclined his head, the faintest smirk playing at his lips. “And perhaps you’re not entirely incapable of gratitude.”
Alastor’s laughter filled the room, rich and melodious, carrying a note of genuine delight. “Touché,” he replied, his crimson eyes glinting with amusement. He turned back to the counter and reached for the coffee pot, pouring a second cup with a theatrical flourish before placing it on the table with a small, exaggerated bow. “I suppose, for Charlie’s sake, I can endure your company a little longer.”
“It’s a truce, then,” Lucifer said, his chuckle low and resonant, his satisfaction evident.
Alastor’s grin widened, the familiar spark of mischief lighting up his eyes. “Oh, don’t get too comfortable, darling,” he said, his voice dripping with playful menace. “A truce doesn’t mean I’ll make it easy for you.”
Lucifer straightened, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his vest with deliberate elegance. His smirk deepened, his tone cool and confident. “I’d expect nothing less.”
Alastor didn’t say thank you. That much was expected. Gratitude, in his peculiar way, wasn’t spoken—it was performed, woven into small, calculated actions that spoke louder than words ever could. So when he reached for the coffee pot and poured the remaining brew into Lucifer’s cup—the garishly bright one emblazoned with a cartoon duck and the phrase “I duck you” —Lucifer arched a brow but said nothing. The action was casual, yet deliberate, as though Alastor were daring him to comment.
He didn’t hand the cup over, of course. That would have been too straightforward, too uncharacteristically polite. Instead, he nudged it across the counter with an air of indifference, his fingers releasing it just far enough to place it within Lucifer’s reach.
Lucifer stared at the cup for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly before his lips twitched upward into a faint smirk. It was so quintessentially Alastor —indirect, dismissive on the surface, but precise enough to carry an unmistakable message. An unspoken acknowledgment. A gesture of begrudging… respect? No, that was too strong a word. Tolerance, perhaps. Whatever it was, Lucifer found it amusing.
He picked up the cup, the absurd little duck grinning up at him, and took a slow sip. The coffee was still warm, its rich aroma mingling with the faint hum of static. Damn, everyone was right, it was the best coffee he had tasted in centuries.
Alastor, meanwhile, had settled into the chair opposite him, his long, slender fingers deftly flipping through the vinyl sleeves. Each movement was measured, meticulous, as though he were handling priceless artifacts. His sharp crimson eyes scanned the titles, the intricate artwork, the tiny details etched into the past. He lingered on each record, his expression shifting subtly—a flicker of nostalgia here, a glimmer of admiration there. He didn’t rush, as though every sleeve held a secret worth uncovering, a story waiting to be rediscovered.
The silence between them was profound, not heavy with tension but layered with unspoken words. The clinking of porcelain as Lucifer set his cup down punctuated the air. It was a rare moment—two beings so accustomed to noise and chaos, finding themselves in a pocket of quiet that neither was willing to disrupt.
Lucifer leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting to Alastor, who was now engrossed in the record for “Heebie Jeebies.” The Radio Demon’s ever-present grin had softened, no longer a mask but something closer to genuine delight. His fingers traced the edges of the sleeve as though committing its texture to memory.
“You know,” Lucifer said, his tone casual but edged with curiosity, “I’m surprised you didn’t have these already. You seem like the type to hoard relics of your time.”
Alastor chuckled, a low, melodic sound that filled the room like the opening notes of a song. He didn’t look up from the record. “Oh, I have my treasures, Sire. But even I am not omnipotent. Some things slip through the cracks. That’s the thrill, isn’t it? The pursuit.” His voice dipped into a note of genuine warmth, just for a moment. “Finding something you thought was lost.”
Lucifer, cup in hand, found his gaze lingering on the demon seated across the table. It wasn’t often that he allowed himself to truly look at someone—least of all Alastor—without the usual lens of irritation. Yet here he was, studying the Radio Demon in the quiet hum of the kitchen, as if seeing him anew.
Alastor’s deer-like features were undeniably striking, a peculiar mix of elegance and menace. The sharp angles of his cheekbones, the precise line of his jaw, the unsettling perfection of his grin—it all told a story of someone who had once been human, so undeniably mortal, yet had long since transcended that state. And yet, even in his otherworldly form, there was something deeply, almost hauntingly, familiar about him.
Lucifer’s gaze drifted lower, his attention caught by the way Alastor’s gloved fingers moved with deliberate precision as he handled the vinyl records. Each motion was slow. It was a stark departure from the manic energy that usually surrounded the demon, and it gave Lucifer pause. There was a little tension in Alastor’s posture, though, even in this rare moment of quiet—a coiled spring, ever-ready to snap. He wondered, briefly, if Alastor even knew how to unwind, how to simply be.
Lucifer’s mind wandered, slipping into questions he didn’t normally entertain. What had Alastor been like in life? A man like him must have been quite the charmer, even then—someone who could captivate a room with nothing more than a smile, who could draw people in with that silver tongue of his. Not that he wasn’t charming now—wait. Lucifer’s brows furrowed, his train of thought derailing so abruptly it nearly startled him.
What the hell?
Where had that come from? He shook his head subtly, as if to dislodge the thought from his mind, but it clung stubbornly, a faint echo in the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite banish.
He shifted in his seat, his crimson eyes flicking back to Alastor, who remained engrossed in the records. The sight was strangely disarming, though Lucifer couldn’t decide if it was because it humanized Alastor or made him even more enigmatic.
Lucifer straightened, his composure slipping neatly back into place like a mask. “You seem rather engrossed,” he said smoothly, his voice even, though his curiosity edged through despite his best efforts.
Alastor didn’t look up immediately, his fingers lingering on one of the records before setting it aside with deliberate care. “Why, Sire,” he said, his voice lilting with amusement. “Is that intrigue I hear? Careful now—you wouldn’t want to give me the wrong impression.”
Lucifer’s smirk returned, sharp and calculated, though the lingering thought still nagged at him. “Don’t flatter yourself, Alastor,” he replied, his tone cool but devoid of its usual sharpness. “I was merely... observing.”
Alastor chuckled, a melodic sound that seemed to fill the room, his crimson eyes glinting with mischief as he finally looked up. “Observe away, darling. I’m quite the spectacle, wouldn’t you agree?”
Lucifer said nothing, though the faintest twitch of a smirk betrayed his amusement. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his absurdly cheerful coffee cup. Whatever had crossed his mind moments ago, he shoved it firmly into the recesses of his thoughts, where it belonged—or so he told himself.
Alastor rose from his seat with the same fluid precision that marked his every movement, the stack of vinyls balanced neatly in his hands. His usual flamboyant energy was tempered, replaced by an almost calmed air.
Passing by the sink, he deposited his coffee cup with a faint clink, the sound lingering in the air like the final note of a song. He didn’t bother to glance back, his focus seemingly already elsewhere. Yet, as he adjusted his bow tie with a flick of his fingers, the faintest glimmer of amusement curled at the edges of his grin.
“Enjoy the rest of your morning, Sire,” he said, his tone light and melodic but laced with that familiar undercurrent of mischief, a subtle reminder that the Radio Demon was never entirely predictable. Without waiting for a reply, he strode out of the kitchen, his footsteps echoing softly against the polished floor as he disappeared into the lobby.
Lucifer remained seated, his sharp crimson eyes fixed on the empty doorway Alastor had just passed through. For a moment, the room was steeped in stillness. A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corners of Lucifer’s lips.
For once, their interaction hadn’t devolved into chaos, cutting remarks, or power plays veiled in civility. There had been no grand theatrics or biting insults, just a quiet exchange that had been… tolerable. Alastor hadn’t rejected the gesture, hadn’t mocked it outright. Instead, he had accepted it in his own peculiar way, and the silence they’d shared had felt less like a void and more like an actual truce—a tentative, fragile thing, but a start nonetheless.
Lucifer leaned back slightly, swirling the last sip of coffee in his cup, the absurd little duck on its side staring back at him as though sharing in his musings. The faintest chuckle escaped him, low and thoughtful.
“Civilized,” he murmured, the word rolling off his tongue with a mix of amusement and curiosity. He tapped the rim of the cup lightly with his finger, his gaze lingering on the doorway once more. “Perhaps this truce won’t be so bad after all.”
But as Alastor made his way to his radio tower on the 13th floor, his thoughts churned in stark contrast to the quiet hum of static around him. The elevator ride was eerily silent, save for the faint crackle of energy that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Yet his mind was anything but still. The stack of vinyls in his hands felt heavier with each passing moment—not from their physical weight, but from the significance they carried, the meaning woven into every pristine sleeve.
The gift was extraordinary. Far beyond anything he had anticipated. Lucifer Morningstar, the King of Hell himself, had given him this—an unparalleled collection of relics from a bygone era, pieces that even Alastor, with all his resources and influence, had never managed to procure. Each record had been chosen with meticulous care, the selections almost too perfect to be coincidental. It wasn’t just a gesture—it was a statement. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, Alastor found himself at a rare loss for words.
“Damn him,” he muttered under his breath, the words slipping out before he could stop them. As the elevator doors opened with a soft chime, he stepped into the dimly lit corridor, the familiar shadows stretching toward him like old friends. He adjusted his grip on the vinyls, his sharp grin faltering for a fleeting moment. “He didn’t even give me the chance to mock him properly.”
His voice echoed faintly down the hallway as he approached the door to his tower. The moment he stepped inside, the room came alive. A low, comforting buzz filled the air, the tower’s latent energy responding to his presence. The walls seemed to hum with anticipation, the faint glow of his equipment casting long shadows across the room.
Alastor moved to his worktable, setting the vinyls down with the care of someone handling something sacred. His fingers lingered on the edges of the sleeves, tracing the delicate details of the artwork. Each one was a masterpiece in its own right, a piece of history preserved against all odds. They weren’t just records—they were echoes of a world that had once been his, a reminder of humanity’s fleeting brilliance. And now, they were his. Freely given, no strings attached .
It was maddening.
The Radio Demon sank into his chair, one hand drumming absently against the console. His crimson eyes flickered toward the stack of records, and for a moment, his grin softened into something closer to reflection. The weight of the gesture gnawed at him—not because of its magnitude, but because it had come from the fucking Lucifer. It was calculated, deliberate, impossible to dismiss.
He hated it.
Because now, he owed Lucifer something. And Alastor was a dealmaker—debts, spoken or unspoken, were anathema to him. A gift of this magnitude couldn’t be left unresolved. It demanded repayment, not out of gratitude, but out of principle. To leave it unbalanced would be a slight against his very nature, an affront to the meticulous rules he lived by. Worse, it meant acknowledging that Lucifer, of all beings, had done something… thoughtful.
Alastor’s gaze flicked to the calendar hanging on the wall, a quaint object of the mortal world. He didn’t know where Rosie managed to procure them—these paper-bound artifacts bearing the dates of the Christian God—but she delivered them to him every year without fail, always with a cheery smile and a cryptic comment about “One day can be useful.” He never asked questions. He simply accepted them as part of her peculiar generosity, pinning them to the wall of his tower out of equal parts curiosity and nostalgia. The neat rows of numbered days and months served as an amusing reminder of a world that no longer belonged to him, yet remained tethered to his thoughts in subtle, maddening ways.
January was nearly over, and a thought struck him—a devilishly clever one.
Valentine’s Day.
Alastor chuckled darkly, the sound echoing through the room like a ripple of static. “Fine, Lucifer . If you want to play this game, I’ll play. You’ll get your ‘bribery truce’ too.” He cast a glance at the vinyls again, his grin sharpening. “And it will be just as valuable, just as unforgettable.”
Ideas began forming in his mind, each one more elaborate than the last. He wasn’t going to let Lucifer get the upper hand, no matter how impressive the records were. If anything, this was an opportunity—an opening to remind the King of Hell who he was dealing with.
He laughed a little as he prepared everything for his morning show. “Let the game begin,” he muttered, his smile widening. “And happy Valentine’s Day, you insufferable fool.”