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Alastor does not sleep.
Sleep is a mortal thing, a weakness he long since abandoned even before he had died. Even now, in Hell, where time twisted and looped upon itself in endless night, sleep remained an inconvenience he refused to indulge. Why should he? He had lived a full life without it. And in death—oh, in death, he had far too much fun to waste time on something so pointless.
Lucifer, however, does sleep.
Not often. And never when expected. But when he decides to, there is no arguing with it.
It started as an irritation. A joke, almost.
One evening, Alastor had been sitting in the Hazbin Hotel’s lounge, watching with mild amusement as the ragtag group of miscreants he had somehow become entangled with argued over what ridiculous film to put on for their so-called “movie night.” It was all so terribly dull—these little rituals of camaraderie they seemed to cherish. But Alastor, for all his protests, had stopped trying to avoid them. He always ended up here, tucked into his corner of the couch, a smirk tugging at his lips as chaos unfolded around him.
And then he arrived.
Lucifer Morningstar did not often grace their little gatherings with his presence. But when he did, he had a way of making it feel as though he had always belonged. He strolled in that night with all his usual arrogance, a glass of wine in hand, and settled himself beside Alastor as if he had every right to be there.
“You look thrilled to be here, bellhop,” Lucifer drawled, tipping his glass toward Alastor.
Alastor gave a sharp grin. “Oh, positively beside myself with joy.”
Lucifer chuckled, low and knowing. “Well, at least you make for interesting company.”
The movie started. The others fell into their usual antics—Charlie curled up with Vaggie, Angel making exaggerated commentary that Husk swatted at him for, Niffty darting around to bring snacks no one had asked for.
Alastor settled in, letting the noise wash over him. But something felt… off.
Lucifer, the ever-watchful, ever-imposing King of Hell, had gone quiet beside him.
Alastor turned his head slightly, red eyes flicking to the man beside him.
Lucifer’s head had tilted back against the couch, his posture uncharacteristically loose. His wine glass dangled precariously from his fingers, but he made no move to steady it. His breathing was deep, slow.
Asleep.
For a long moment, Alastor simply stared.
Lucifer Morningstar—resting.
It was absurd. Unbelievable. And yet, here he was, leaning ever so slightly in Alastor’s direction, his usual sharpness dulled by the quiet rise and fall of his chest.
Alastor’s first instinct was to jolt him awake. To snicker, to prod, to make some cutting remark about how unbecoming it was for the King of Hell to doze off in such a public setting. But then… he hesitated.
Lucifer, in sleep, looked—
Not vulnerable, no. The Devil could never be that.
But he looked peaceful.
It was strange. Unnatural. And yet, Alastor found himself unable to look away.
He did not move for the rest of the film.
It kept happening.
Not always in the same way. Sometimes, Lucifer would simply drift off in the middle of a conversation, reclining with that same lazy arrogance as though the weight of the world did not rest upon his shoulders. Other times, it was deliberate—he would sit beside Alastor, wine glass in hand, and by the time the movie’s opening credits had finished rolling, his head would tip ever so slightly toward Alastor’s shoulder.
It was infuriating.
And yet, Alastor never stopped him.
He told himself it was because waking Lucifer was more trouble than it was worth. That the amusement of seeing him in such an unguarded state was too entertaining to interrupt.
But deep down, something about it… unsettled him.
Not in a bad way. No, that would be easier.
It was the way Lucifer always seemed to choose him for this absurd little habit. How he never did this with the others—never with his daughter, Charlie, or even Vaggie.
Just Alastor.
As if Alastor’s presence was something safe.
The thought made his skin prickle, made something restless coil tight in his chest.
He did not know what to do with it.
One night, long after the others had gone to bed, it happened again.
The hotel was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old building settling. Alastor sat in his usual spot on the couch, twirling his cane between his fingers, watching as the dying embers of the fireplace flickered weakly.
Lucifer sat beside him, as he often did now. He had been speaking, at first—some idle, half-amused commentary about the ridiculousness of their current situation. But somewhere along the way, his words had slowed. His voice had grown softer.
And then, silence.
Alastor did not need to look to know.
Lucifer had fallen asleep again.
This time, his head had tipped just enough that it rested against Alastor’s shoulder.
Alastor went rigid.
He could wake him. He should wake him. But he did not.
Instead, he sat there, very still, as Lucifer breathed evenly beside him.
For a fleeting moment, in the dim glow of the firelight, he allowed himself to wonder—
When was the last time Lucifer had truly rested?
Not just slept. But rested.
The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
He did not move for a long time.
Alastor was not sentimental.
He told himself this as he sat stiffly on the couch, Lucifer’s weight pressing lightly against his shoulder. It wasn’t much—a slight lean, barely there, like a whisper of trust not meant to be spoken aloud. And yet, Alastor felt it. The heat of it, the weight of it.
It would be so easy to move.
So easy to jolt Lucifer awake, to slide out from under the quiet burden of his presence and go about his night as if nothing had changed.
Except something had changed.
Alastor just wasn’t sure when.
He sat there, unmoving, as the firelight faded. The steady rise and fall of Lucifer’s breath was the only sound in the room.
And against all logic, against all reason, Alastor stayed.
The next day, he resolved not to let it happen again.
It was ridiculous. Unnecessary. The King of Hell could rest wherever he pleased—he had an entire castle for that, after all. He did not need Alastor, of all people, to serve as his personal resting place.
And yet, when evening fell, and Lucifer wandered into the lounge with that same air of casual arrogance, Alastor found himself expecting it.
No—waiting for it.
Lucifer settled beside him without a word, the others chattering away over some nonsense or another. Alastor barely heard them.
He was too aware of the space between them.
Too aware of how, little by little, Lucifer relaxed.
It didn’t happen all at once. It never did. But soon enough, the tension in Lucifer’s shoulders eased, his posture grew looser, and that ever-present smirk softened into something dangerously close to contentment.
And when his head tipped, just slightly, in Alastor’s direction—
Alastor did not move away.
He didn’t think about it. Didn’t let himself name whatever strange thing had settled into his chest.
He simply let it happen.
Lucifer never mentioned it.
Not once.
He never acknowledged the way he always found his way to Alastor’s side. Never commented on the nights when he let himself rest against Alastor’s shoulder, or the evenings when his breathing grew slow and steady while the others carried on around them.
At first, Alastor thought it was deliberate. A carefully calculated game, the way everything with Lucifer tended to be.
But then, one night, he caught something—
A flicker of something unguarded in Lucifer’s expression as he settled beside him.
It was quick. Barely there. But it was enough.
Enough for Alastor to realize that this wasn’t a game.
Lucifer wasn’t doing this for some grand manipulation, nor was it some attempt at control.
He was simply tired.
Bone-deep, soul-weary tired.
And somehow, for reasons Alastor could not fathom, he had chosen him as the place where he could finally let that weight slip.
The realization lodged itself deep in Alastor’s ribs, curling there like an ember that refused to die.
It wasn’t unpleasant.
Just… unexpected.
The last time it happened, Alastor almost stopped it.
The others had long since gone to bed, and Lucifer had drifted off beside him once more, head resting lightly against his shoulder.
Alastor could feel his warmth.
It was dangerous. This quiet, this closeness. It was the kind of thing that snuck up on a man, that made him forget what he was—who he was.
But when he shifted, ready to pull away, Lucifer stirred.
Not enough to wake.
Just enough to sigh softly, to press the slightest bit closer, as if seeking something in the darkness.
And something in Alastor—something sharp, something cruel—softened at the edges.
He stayed.
Just this once.
Just a little longer.
Long enough to let the fire burn to embers. Long enough to listen to the slow, steady rhythm of Lucifer’s breath.
Long enough to realize—
He did not mind being needed.
Not by him.
Not like this.
Alastor does not sleep.
Lucifer does.
And for some reason, he has decided Alastor’s presence is the perfect lullaby.
And Alastor—
Alastor lets him.